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LANETON PARSONAGE 


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BALLANTVNE, HANSON AND CO. 
EDINBURGH AND LONDON 



LANETON PARSONAGE 


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ELIZABETH M. SEWELL 


Oh ! say not, dream not, heavenly notes 
To childish cars are vain, — 

That the young mind at random floats. 

And cannot reach the strain. 

Dim or unheard the words may fall. 

And yet the heaven-taught mind 
May learn the sacred air, and all 
The harmony unwind. 

The Christian Year 


NEIV EI>ITION 


NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY 

713 BROADWAY 
1878 


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LANETON PARSONAGE 


CHAPTER I. 

* A/T little Madeline Clifford, as she looked up 

iVl from the work which she had been industriously hem- 
ming for nearly a quarter of an hour, ‘ I want very mudi to ask 
you a question/ 

‘ Well, my love, what is it ? why should you be afraid 

‘ Because, perhaps, you will think it is curious, and would 
rather not answer/ 

‘ I can but say no, if I think it wrong/ . 

‘ Oh ! it is not wrong, I am sure ; but sometimes you tell i^s 
not to trouble ourselves about other persons^ concerns ; and 
what I wish to know has nothing really to do with me, or with 
any of us/ 

Mrs Clifford smiled : ‘ Shall I tell you, Madeline,’ she said, 

* what you are going to ask ? ’ 

‘ You can’t, mamma ; how should you know ? you cannot 
look at my thoughts/ 

‘ But I can guess them, which sometimes does as well. What 
made you listen ' much to what Mrs Mortimer and I were 
saying just now ?’ 

‘ Oh, then, mamma, you do know : but I did not understand 
when I did listen ; because I could not make out what Mrs 
Mortimer meant when she said that Lady Catharine Hyde was 
going to adopt Alice Lennox. What is adopting.?’ 

‘ Taking her to be her own child ; and having her taught, and 
clothed, and fed, a's a mother would.’ 

* And will she love her .? ’ inquired Madeline. ‘ I should not 

A 


2 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


care for all the eating and drinking in the world if no one loved 
me.’ 

* I have no doubt Lady Catharine will,’ replied Mrs Clifford, 
^ because she is a very kind-hearted person ; and Alice is most 
fortunate in having found such a friend, now that she has lost 
her mother.’ 

‘ Lady Catharine was very fond of Mrs Lennox, was she not, 
mamma .^’ asked Madeline. 

‘ Yes, my dear, very ; and she promised, when Mrs Lennox 
was dying, that Alice should live with her, and be to her as her 
own little girl : and the fact of her keeping her word so strictly 
in the one case, is a reason for believing she will do so in the 
other.’ 

‘ Will Alice like it ? ’ said Madeline, quickly. 

^ I don’t know, my dear ; and she is too sorrowful now for 
any one to judge.’ 

^ But, mamma, will she be Alice Lennox still ? ’ 

Mrs Clifford could not 'help smiling : ‘ Yes, my love ; why 
should she not ? ’ 

‘ But if she is Lady Catharine Hyde’s child, how can she be?’ 

‘ She will not be hers really, but only what is called adopted.’ 

‘ And so her name will not alter,’ said Madeline. ‘ Persons’ 
-^ames do alter though, sometimes, mamma : yours was Beres- 
ford once.’ 

‘ Yes ; that was my surname ; I changed it when I was 
married ; but my other name — my Christian name — I kept, and 
must keep always.’ 

‘ Mary, you mean,’ said Madeline ; ‘ is that your best name?’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Mrs Clifford : < Beresford is the name I had 
when I was born into the world, of human parents ; but Mary 
was the name given me when I was baptized, and made a child 
of God. The one you see I have lost, but the other I keep.’ 

‘ And Madeline is my best name then ; but I don’t remember 
that it is, when I am called.’ 

‘ I am afraid we are all apt to forget,’ replied her mother ; 
^ and though a great many persons have never been baptized, 
and yet are called by two names, that is no reason why we 
should think nothing of our Christian names, and of the occa- 
sion on which they were given to us.’ 

Madeline waited for an instant, and then said, ‘ So Alice 
will be Alice always ; and yet she will seem different when she 
lives at the ‘Manor,’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


3 


* She will belong to a new family/ said Mrs Clifford : ^ and 
if Lady Catharine were to wish it very much, she might by and 
by take the name of Hyde besides Lennox ; though I do not 
think this is likely. Surnames can be altered ; Christian names 
cannot. But you must not ask me any more questions, my dear 
child : I have told you all I know ; and I am going out.’ 

Madeline looked as if she would willingly have kept her 
mamma a few moments longer ; but Mrs Clifford was gone 
almost before she had time to determine upon what was next to 
be said ; and Madeline’s only resource was to sit with her work 
in her lap, and her head resting upon her hand, while she 
thought upon what her mamma had said, and the sudden 
change which had occurred in the life of her young companion. 

Madeline’s meditations, however, did not last very long. 
They were interrupted by the sound of a child’s voice pro- 
nouncing her name ; and a stranger, on hearing the tone in 
which it was repeated, would probably have started with surprise, 
for the voice seemed Madeline’s own. And still more, on turn- 
ing to look at the little girl, who walked slowly into the room 
with a book in her hand, upon which her eyes were bent whilst 
she moved, it might almost have been supposed that two 
Madelines, alike in every look and feature, were present. 
There was the same fair complexion, the same light glossy hairj 
the same blue eye, the same height and size. It was, to all 
appearance, Madeline’s second self. And if Madeline had been 
asked, she would have said that her twin-sister, her darling 
Ruth, was indeed her second self ; that what one liked the other 
liked ; what one wished for the other desired too ; that they had 
never been separated for a single day — scarcely even for an 
hour ; that they had learned the same lessons from one book ; 
that they had played, and walked, and slept together, day after 
day, and night after night ; and that without Ruth she could 
not imagine it possible to be happy for a moment. Ruth would 
have said the same : yet the two sisters were not really alike ; 
and even in their manner and appearance, it was possible for 
a person who observed them carefully to discover many 
differences. 

Madeline’s voice was clear and merry ; she ran about the 
house singing and laughing, as if her heart was too full of 
happiness to allow her a moment’s rest. Ruth laughed and sang 
also ; but her laugh was low, and her songs were quiet ; and 
she was most frequently seen walking along the passage or up 


4 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


the staircase, reading as she went, in the same way as she was 
doing when she just now came into the room. There was joy- 
ousness in ]\Iadeline’s glance, and her mouth seemed formed 
only for smiles ; but Ruth’s clear, blue eye was thoughtful ; and 
when she joined in Madeline’s laugh, she was the first to become 
serious again, and to remember a lesson, or a piece of work, 
or something they had been told to do, but which they were 
likely to forget. 

In temper they were still more different. Madeline was hasty 
and thoughtless, quickly put out of humour, but as quickly 
recovering herself. She never hesitated to confess a fault when 
she had committed it ; but perhaps the next minute the con- 
fession was forgotten, and the offence repeated. 

Ruth was said to be shy ; and many persons thought her 
gentle and humble ; for she blushed when she was reproved, 
never made excuses, and always bore punishment without com- 
plaining ; but her mamma sometimes grieved to find, that after 
her little girl had done wrong, she kept away from her ; and 
that instead of throwing her arms round her neck, as Madeline 
always did, and begging for forgiveness, she sat silent, reading 
or working, or learning her lessons ; and now and then allowed 
hours to pass without expressing any sorrow. 

Still, on the whole, Ruth was careful and attentive, and it was 
but seldom that Mrs Clifford had occasion to correct her; and 
perhaps it was from this cause that the evil in her disposition 
was not so easily perceived as in Madeline’s. Ruth Clifford 
was shy, and liked to keep to herself, and not to be obliged to 
go into the drawing-room to speak to strangers, and she was 
heartily ashamed whenever she had done wrong. But it was 
not because she was humble that the colour rushed to her cheek 
when she was reproved, but because in truth she was very 
proud. As soon as she began to understand the difference 
between right and wrong, Ruth learned to think herself much 
better than Madeline. The servants scolded Madeline for 
being hasty, but they praised her because she was gentle. They 
complained of Madeline’s thoughtlessness, but they declared 
that Ruth scarcely ever required to be reminded of the same 
thing twice. As they grew older, Madeline used to forget her 
lessons, but it seldom happened that Ruth was not perfect in 
hers ; and Madeline herself, when in disgrace, would frequently 
cry, and wish she was half as good as her sister. Scarcely 
any one guessed the great defect in Ruth’s character to be want 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


5 


of humility, except her papa and mamma ; for pride is one of 
those very serious faults which are often but little perceived, 
and therefore the more difficult to correct. 

But though Madeline and Ruth Clifford, like other little girls 
of their age, had many faults which it required time and care to 
overcome, on the whole they were good children, whom every one 
'felt inclined to love. True and open, generally speaking, in all 
that they did, good-natured and generous, and anxious to please 
their parents, no one could live with them without being 
interested in them. 

Mr Clifford was a clergyman ; he was not rich, and he had a 
large parish to attend to, a number of poor people to see every 
day, and many duties to make him anxious, and sometimes sad ; 
but he was a man whose first wish and endeavour was to obey 
God, and therefore, whatever trouble he might meet with, he 
had a peaceful, contented mind ; and when the labours of the 
day were over, and he could enjoy a walk or a conversation with 
his wife or with his children, he often said with a sincere heart 
that the blessings of his earthly lot were such as to overwhelm 
him with the sense of God’s bounty. And certainly his home 
vv^as placed in a scene where the beauty of nature alone must 
have given him enjoyment. 

The parsonage of Laneton was situated at the farthest end of 
a little village about half a mile from the sea coast. It was a 
cottage, built upon a hill ; rather low, and long, and standing 
upon a smooth piece of turf, with some pretty flower-beds in 
front, and a row of large elm-trees upon a grassy bank at the 
side. The road through the village passed it on the right, and 
on the left it was bordered by a thick copse and some green 
meadows ; while, directly in front, beyond the scattered dwell- 
ings of the poor, and the trees which skirted the extensive 
grounds of Haseley Manor, lay a broad expanse of the blue sea, 
the curling waves of which broke upon a sandy beach shut in 
by the steep red cliffs that formed the little bay of Laneton. 
Laneton was but a small village, and in itself had no particular 
beauty, but scarcely any one passed through without admiring 
it. There was a peculiar air of neatness in the cottages and 
gardens ; the flowers were bright, the windows clean, the 
palings well kept. No thatch torn as if on purpose to admit 
the rain and wind ; no broken fences, or mud walls ; no gates 
off their hinges ; — it was a place which every one saw at once 
was cared for. Some thanks for all this were due to Lady 


6 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


Catharine Hyde, the possessor of Haseley Manor, and the 
owner of nearly every cottage in the place ; but there was 
gratitude of a still higher kind due to Mr Clifford. It was his 
goodness which had been the means of gaining an influence 
over the poor people, and making them more constant at 
church, and more attentive to their families ; it was his instruc- 
tion which had brought the children of his parish into such ex- 
cellent order, that to belong to Laneton was a recommendation 
to the whole neighbourhood ; whilst his constant self-denial and 
devotion made him spare neither time nor labour if he saw the 
least hope of being of use to the humblest of those committed 
to his care. All this trouble was shared by his wife — Mrs 
Clifford did not indeed teach and advise the poor in the same 
way as her husband, but she could and did work for them, and 
visit them, and tell them how they were to take care of their 
little ones. She helped them when they were ill, and com- 
forted and felt for them when they were unhappy ; and thus 
took from her husband half the labour of his heavy duties. 
With such parents, Madeline and Ruth had spent a very happy 
childhood, for they were taught to employ their time usefully, 
and to be contented with the blessings which God had granted 
them, and they had no idea that any home could be prettier, or 
any station in life better, than their own. They had scarcely 
ever been away from Laneton, and they heard little of what 
passed in other houses, for there were but few children in the 
neighbourhood, and there was only one with whom they were 
allowed constantly to play. 

Alice Lennox was the only child of a widow lady, whose hus- 
band had been an offlcer in the army. Mrs Lennox was a great 
invalid at the time when she first came to live at Laneton, in 
the small white house which fronted Lady Catharine Hyde’s 
lodge. No one seemed to know much about her except Lady 
Catharine herself, and her attentions never ceased. Whether 
it were from being lonely also, from having lost her husband 
and having no child to interest her ; or merely from natural 
kindness of heart ; or, as some people said, because they had 
been friends in years gone by, and had promised, even in their 
school days, that they would never forsake each other when 
trials should come upon them ; certain it is, that Lady Cathar- 
ine’s affection for Mrs Lennox was very unlike that which is 
generally seen. Few days passed without their meeting, for 
scarcely any engagements were allowed to interfere with the 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


7 


accustomed visits. Books, pictures, flowers, and fruit, were 
regularly sent from the Manor, though Mrs Lennox had nothing 
to offer in return but her gratitude and love ; and when the ill- 
ness, which had been gradually increasing for many months, at 
length was pronounced to be dangerous. Lady Catharine spent 
days and nights by the side of her invalid friend, and seemed 
to forget that it was possible to be weary whilst she could afford 
a moment’s comfort to one she loved. 

Mrs Lennox was fully deserving of this affection, though few 
praised, or spoke of her, except in pity. Only Mr Clifford often 
expressed to his wife his surprise at the patience with which she 
bore the most painful sufferings, and wished that he had been 
acquainted with her in the days of her health, when he might 
have been able, from conversation, to learn more of a character 
which appeared so meek and so resigned. Sometimes, also, 
when he returned from one of his frequent visits with a counte- 
nance of sorrow, he would say that his grief was not for her, 
for that she was fitted for the peace of heaven, and he could 
not wish to keep her from it ; but that he mourned for her 
orphan child, and for the dreadful loss whiclr the death of such 
a mother must be. It was no matter of surprise to him when 
Mrs Lennox had breathed her last, and her child was left with- 
out any relations who were able to protect her, to be told that 
it was Lady Catharine’s intention to adopt Alice Lennox, and 
take her at once to live with her at the Manor. It seemed a 
natural step for one who had shown so much affection to her 
mother ; and when the wish was mentioned to him, he could 
but say that it was a merciful arrangement of Providence, and 
be trusted it might be a source of blessing to both Lady 
Catharine and her little charge. The change would have been 
a great event to any other person, but Alice was too unhappy 
to understand it. When she was told that she was to leave the 
small house which had been her home for the last two years, 
and go to live at Haseley Manor, and be treated as the daughter 
of Lady Catharine Hyde, she only cried bitterly, and said that 
she would rather stay with her mamma’s maid Benson ; she 
did not like the Manor, it looked so gloomy ; and Lady Cathar- 
ine was not her mamma, and she did not want to go to her. 
A few persons wondered at the little girl’s dislike to the notion, 
and said that it was not natural, and showed that she had no 
gratitude, and was very cold-hearted ; but Madeline and Ruth 
Clifford, who had been Alice’s playfellows for many months, 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


understood a great deal more of her real feelings. They knew 
that she was not insensible to Lady Catharine’s kindness, though 
there were some things which made her feel frightened at the 
thoughts of living with her. 

‘ It is really true, Ruth,’ said Madeline, as she jumped up 
from her seat when her sister came into the room. ‘ Mamma 
says that Alice is to live at the Manor. I wish she would let 
me go and see her first.’ 

‘ I don’t think she will Want to see us to-day,’ said Ruth ; 
‘ we couldn’t play, you know.’ 

‘ No, not play, exactly, but I should like to talk to her, and 
make her tell me whether she likes going. Do you know 
that, perhaps, by and by, she will be called Hyde as well as 
Lennox ? ’ 

‘Does mamma say so ?’ inquired Ruth, in surprise. 

‘ Mamma says she might be, but she does not think she will 
be ; but she must be Alice always.’ 

‘ Why mustP asked Ruth ; ‘ why may not Alice be changed 
as well as Lennox ?’ 

‘ Because Alice, is her Christian name,’ replied Madeline, 
‘ and mamma says people keep that always.’ 

‘ I never thought before whether I had a Christian name,’ 
said Ruth ; ‘ but I suppose that is why we answer Ruth and 
Madeline, and not Clifford, when we say the catechism.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Madeline, pleased at having given her sister a 
new notion ; ‘ but if you were Alice, should you like to be called 
Miss Hyde ?’ 

‘ I don’t know,’ said Ruth ; ‘ I think I should choose to 
have my own name.’ 

‘ I like Lennox better than Hyde, too,’ said Madeline ; ‘ but 
it would be such fun to have a new name : shouldn’t you like 
to be adopted V 

‘ I should not like to be Lady Catharine’s child,’ replied 
Ruth. 

‘No, of course, not to give up one’s own papa and mamma ; 
but Alice has none now.’ Ruth looked grave. ‘ It is very 
dismal, I know,’ continued Madeline, her bright face becoming 
sad also ; ‘ but there will be a great many pleasant things at 
Haseley which Alice never would have had if she had gone on 
living in that little, poky house. All I should dislike would be 
to have such a strict mamma ; doesn’t it sound odd ? — I never 
can fancy Lady Catharine a mamma, can you.^’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


9 


‘ No,’ said Ruth, laughing ; ‘ she is just like a governess.’ 

‘ So she is — a stiff, starch governess, all set up and prim, 
like Miss Meadows, who came here in the summer with Emma 
Ferrers. If I were Alice, I would call her governess.’ 

‘ No,’ said Ruth ; ‘ that would be wrong, because you know 
she is really so kind.’ 

‘ And mamma says, too,’ continued Madeline, ‘ that all gover- 
nesses are not prim, and that she loved one of hers very much ; 
but she lived a great many years ago. I should like to see 
some more governesses, and then I could tell.’ For a few 
moments Madeline forgot Alice Lennox, whilst endeavouring to 
remember exactly what Miss Meadows was like, and determin- 
ing whether she would rather live with her or with Lady 
Catharine Hyde. 

Ruth was silent likewise ; but after a short pause she 
exclaimed, ‘ What I should like, would be to be as rich as if I 
were Lady Catharine’s child when I grew up. I wouldn’t live 
ivith her now, but I should like to have some great thing to 
look forward to.’ 

‘ That is such a long time to come,’ said Madeline ; ‘ I never 
can think of things that are far off.’ 

^ Not so many years,’ observed Ruth ; ‘we are ten now — in 
eight years’ time we shall be eighteen ; it does not seem so very 

long.’ 

‘ It does to me,’ observed Madeline ; ‘ I can’t understand 
what it is for things to be going to happen so far off as one 
year ; and that is a reason why I should not care to be Alice. 
It would be no good to have pleasure to come by and by ; I 
should want to have it at once.’ 

‘ I daresay Alice will have some pleasures,’ said Ruth ; ‘ but 
I don’t know that I should much enjoy them, if I had to live 
with that strict Lady Catharine, instead of our own dear papa 
and mamma.’ 

‘ I wonder whether we shall ever go and play at Haseley ?’ 
said Madeline. ‘ I heard Benson telling Alice it was such a 
beautiful place for hide and seek.’ 

‘ Lady Catharine does not like a noise,’ said Ruth ; ‘ you 
remember how she always kept on hushing whenever we went 
into the white house, and she was there. Somehow, I don’t 
think I could play at the Manor.’ 

‘ Oh ! as for that,’ exclaimed Madeline, ‘ I can play any- 
where ; and I don’t think Lady Catharine is cross exactly. 


lO 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


though she does hush so much. I dare say she will not care 
when there is no person ill in the house.^ 

‘ Perhaps not/ replied Ruth, as if scarcely attending to what 
her sister was saying ; and, after thinking for some minutes, she 
added, ‘ it is the odd feeling I can’t understand. It would be 
like playing at being her child as we play with our dolls. I 
don’t think I should like it — no, I am sure I should not.’ 

‘ Well, I should,’ said Madeline ; ‘ it is very strange of you, 
Ruth, not thinking of things as I do. I don’t mean, of course, 
that it would be pleasant going away from home ; but if I could 
go to a new house and a new place, with papa and mamma, 
and you ’ 

‘ And be Lady Catharine’s child all the time,’ said Ruth, 
laughing ; ‘ she should be your mamma, Madeline — I would 
not have her for mine.’ 

^ How I long to see Alice!’ said Madeline. ‘I fancy she 
must be different, though it is such a little while ago that we 
were with her. Mrs Mortimer said to mamma, that she heard 
she was to go to the Manor to-morrow.’ 

‘ To-morrow is the funeral,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes, I know it is ; shouldn’t you like to see it?’ 

‘ No,’ replied Ruth, quickly. 

‘ Oh ! why not ? Cook said, that if we looked out of the 
nursery window we should be able to watch it all the way to 
the churchyard. Lady Catharine’s great carriage is to be there, 
and Mr Mortimer is going in a carriage too ; — there can be no 
harm in looking.’ 

‘ I don’t suppose there would be any harm in it,’ replied 
Ruth ; ‘ but I know it would make me cry, and I think it would 
make you cry, too, Madeline. Don’t you remember how kind 
Mrs Lennox was whenever we went there, and how she used to 
give us oranges and baked apples ?’ 

Madeline looked a little ashamed : ‘ I was not thinking of 
Mrs Lennox,’ she said, ‘ only about the carriages ; but, Ruth, 
don’t you think she is very happy?’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Ruth, ‘ yet I don’t like her being gone at all 
the more for that ; and when nobody lives at the white house, 
I shall hate passing by it.’ 

‘ You are always thinking of something on beyond/ said 
Madeline. ‘ I wish I could. I am sure no one would love me 
if they knew I wanted to see the funeral — no one but you, Ruth ; 
but you can’t help iL because we are sisters.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


1 1 

* If Alice had a sister 1’ began Ruth. 

* Yes, wouldn’t it be nice for her? She asked me one day if 
you and I were not just like sisters to her, and I did not know 
what to say. I don’t think we can be like sisters to anybody 
but ourselves — do you think we can?’ 

* No,’ replied Ruth, earnestly; ‘ and papa and mamma would 
not wish us to be. You know they said, only last Sunday, 
when we were sitting in the arbour after church, that all our 
whole lives, if we lived ever and ever so long, there would be 
nobody to love us in the same way, because of no one having, 
just the same things to remember.’ 

< We have quite the same,’ said Madeline, < all the way back 
as far as we can think.’ 

* Yes,’ continued Ruth, ‘all from that red spelling-book which 
uncle George gave us when we were three years old.’ 

‘And the work-boxes,’ added Madeline; ‘and that time 
when old Roger used to dip us in the sea — and the new cur- 
tains to our bed, Ruth ; only I cried, and you did not, when 
mamma would not let us pull them close ; and, oh, so many 
things!’ Ruth’s memory was the clearer of the two, and one 
thing recalled another, till the principal events of their short 
and sunny lives had been named ; and then Madeline ended, 
by throwing her arm round Ruth’s neck, and repeating, ‘ Mamma 
says there is nothing like a sister.’ 


CHAPTER II. 

I T was in the cool of the evening, when the lessons were all 
finished, that Ruth seated herself in the arbour at the 
bottom of the garden, from whence she could see the boats 
and vessels which were in the bay, and watch the fisher- 
men mending their nets, or sauntering about on the sandy 
beach, or leaning against the rocks waiting for the return of 
their absent companions. It was Ruth’s favourite spot ; and 
she generally found great amusement in the sea and all that 
was connected with it ; but on this day her eyes were not fixed 
upon the blue waves, or the white foam, or the red sandy shore; 
but upon the old turret-like chimneys of Haseley Manor, which 
were seen peeping above the trees to the right of the bay. 


12 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Whatever Ruth’s thoughts might have been, they employed her 
so deeply, that Madeline called to her several times without re- 
ceiving an answer ; and at last she begged not to be inter- 
rupted, and allowed her sister to run races with Rover down 
the long, green walk in the kitchen garden, without feeling any 
wish to join her. Ruth was fond of sitting by herself, and 
thinking about the things which she heard and saw every day ; 
and trying to fancy what she should be like when she was a 
grown-up woman. She seldom, however, spoke of her own 
fancies ; and even her mamma often observed her grave moods, 
without being able to find out their cause. The person who 
made Ruth talk most was her papa. She had been taught to 
look up to him with great reverence ; and when he asked her 
questions, it seemed wrong not to answer them, though it was 
often difficult' to find proper words for explaining what she 
meant. But Mr Clifford had a sort of power of guessing what 
was in his little girl’s mind before she had even attempted to 
tell him ; and often repeated her very thoughts aloud in a way 
which made Ruth start, as if she imagined he must be one of 
the magicians or conjurors of whom she had sometimes read. 
It was in the same arbour in which Ruth was now sitting, that 
she had most frequently talked with her papa. Mr Clifford 
liked it as much, or even more than Ruth herself ; since he 
could enjoy it not merely because the view was pleasant, but 
because the sea, and the sky, and the steep cliffs with their 
jagged edges overhanging the shore, and even the masses of 
sea-weed tossed to and fro by the tide, made him think of the 
unspeakable goodness of that Almighty God who has given so 
much beauty to this sinful earth. 

Ruth liked these conversations almost more than any amuse- 
ment, though she felt sometimes that it would be difficult to say 
anything in answer. She often listened silently, or only re- 
peated yes and no, till her father had finished talking, and then 
ran away to tell Madeline all that he had said, and beg her to 
stay with her in the arbour the next evening and listen too. 
But perhaps the next evening came, and Mr Clifford was en- 
gaged in his study, or walking with her mamma ; and Made- 
line thought it tiresome to wait for him, and chose to play 
instead ; so days and even weeks passed before Ruth again 
had what she was accustomed to call a long talk. This even- 
ing, when the air was sultry, and the sea looked motionless, 
and not a leaf was stirring upon the trees, was just fitted for 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


13 


sitting still. Ruth hoped her papa might perhaps come into 
the garden, for she had seen her mother set off for the village ; 
and she thought, if her father was left alone, he would be the 
more likely to find his way to her ; and thus it proved. Ruth 
had scarcely begun to think about the life which Alice Lennox 
would be likely to lead at the Manor, when her papa’s hand 
was placed upon her shoulder : ‘You are alone, my child ? 
where is Madeline?’ 

‘ Playing with Rover in the green walk, papa ; but it is so 
hot.’ 

‘ And you like best to sit still ; but i am not sure that it is 
as good for you, Ruth — that is, generally ; perhaps to-night 
tliere is no harm in being quiet.’ 

^ We played last evening, and the evening before, and the 
evening before that,’ said Ruth, ‘ and I don’t care for it to- 
night ; and there is not room in the walk for two to run with 
Rover.’ 

‘ Is that the only reason for liking to sit still, and be alone ?’ 
inquired Mr Clifford. 

‘Not the only one, papa. The sea looks so beautiful, and 
the fishing-boats are just going off ; and, besides that, I was 
thinking about Alice Lennox.’ 

‘ Poor child 1’ sighed Mr Clifford ; ‘to-morrow will be a sad 
day for her.’ 

‘ Worse than to-day, papa, do you think ?’ 

‘ Yes, my love ; for many reasons. Some of them, perhaps, 
you would not quite understand, for you have never known 
what it is to lose any one you have loved very much ; and you 
cannot tell how dreary and lonely everything seems, when we 
have laid our friends to rest in the earth, and are obliged to go 
back ourselves to our common duties.’ 

‘ But Alice’s life will be different after to-morrow,’ observed 
Ruth ; ‘for Madeline says she is to go directly to live with Lady 
Catharine.’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Mr Clifford, ‘ it will indeed be very different ; 
but I do not think that is likely to make her less unhappy, be- 
cause at first everything will be strange.’ 

‘ I was thinking of that, papa, when you came. Madeline 
and I were talking about it all this morning, and Madeline said 
she should like to be adopted.’ 

‘And should you like it too, Ruth?’ 

Ruth coloured, as she generally did when she was asked any 


u 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


questions about herself. * I don’t know, papa,’ she said. * We 
don’t mean either of us, that we could bear to go away from 
you, because it would make us very unhappy ; but only that 
everything would be new and’ 

‘And what, Ruth?’ The answer was interrupted by the ap- 
proach of Rover, who was quickly followed by Madeline. ‘Now, 
Rover, down ! down !’ said Mr Clifford, as the huge black dog 
put his paws upon his knees. 

Rover and I have been having such fun !’ exclaimed Made- 
line : ‘ we have been running races ; and he is so good ; he 
came directly I called him, though I knew he wanted to go into 
the pond.’ 

‘ Arid papa and I have been having pleasure too,’ said Ruth ; 
‘ at least I know I have.’ 

‘Pleasure ! what pleasure?’ said Madeline, quickly.' 

‘ Talking pleasure,’ replied Ruth ; ‘ and I like it much bettei 
than running.’ 

‘ I shall like it too, now,’ said Madeline, taking off her bonnet, 
and throwing it upon the ground ; ‘ I am very tired.’ 

Mr Clifford took up the bonnet, and placed it upon her head ; 
* Prudence, Madeline, my darling ; there is no surer way of 
taking cold than that ; and I am not inclined yet to see you 
become ill, and perhaps die.’ 

‘ You would be as sorry to part with us as we should be to go 
away from you, papa,’ replied Ruth. 

Mr Clifford only smiled in answer ; and after a few moments’ 
silence, said, ‘ And yet Madeline thinks she should like to be 
adopted by some one else.’ 

‘Oh, no, papa!’ exclaimed Madeline, whose quick feelings 
were instantly touched ; ‘ that was only when I was silly this 
morning ; I did not really mean it.’ 

‘ But is there any harm, papa,’ asked Ruth, timidly, ‘in liking 
to have something to look forward to when one is grown up, as 
Alice Lennox will have, if she is to be such a great person as 
Lady Catharine Hyde’s daughter?’ 

‘ N 0 harm, my dear, if we look forward to the right things.’ 
Ruth’s countenance showed that she did not entirely comprehend. 
‘You don’t know what I mean, do you, Ruth?’ said Mr 
Clifford. 

‘ Not quite, papa.’ 

‘ It is rather difficult to understand; but supposing I were to 
tell you that I had been adopted myself, and that you had both 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


15 


been adopted also, and your dear mamma, and all your friends, 
and that we had much greater things to look forward to than 
any which Alice Lennox can have from merely being treated as 
Lady Catharine Hyde’s daughter, should you believe me 
The children did not answer ; but Madeline gazed wonderingly 
in her father’s face. ‘ It is not the first time we have talked 
about it,’ continued Mr Clifford : ‘ I think only last Sunday I 
heard you repeat words which spoke of it.’ 

‘ Sunday, papa.?’ repeated Madeline, hastily; but Ruth con. 
sidered, and then said, ‘In the catechism?’ 

Mr Clifford rested his hand fondly upon her head. 

‘ Thank you, my child ; I am sure you understand me now. 
What is it you say, Madeline, in the answer to the first question 
in the catechism, when you are asked who gave you your Chris- 
tian name?’ Madeline repeated the sentence; and, when she 
had finished, Mr Clifford said, ‘Ruth, you can tell me in your 
own words why I have reason to declare that you and Madeline 
have both been adopted.’ 

‘ I can’t tell, papa,’ interrupted Madeline : ‘I wish you would 
teach me all about it.’ 

‘ Then we must be grave, Madeline ; and I think you are more 
inclined to go for another run with Rover.’ 

‘ No, please stay !’ exclaimed Ruth; ‘ I like having you here 
too.’ 

Madeline looked rather wistfully at Rover; but he was sooner 
tired of play than his young mistress, and now lay with his eyes 
shut, enjoying the pleasant warmth of the afternoon sun. ‘ I 
would rather stay, papa ; and I will try and be grave, like 
Ruth.’ 

‘ It is a hard matter, I know,’ said Mr Clifford; ‘but when we 
are talking about God and our blessed Saviour, we must endea- 
vour to put away idle thoughts for the time, or else we shall 
do ourselves more harm than good. What I wanted to say to 
you both is nothing new ; for you have heard a great many 
times that you were made at your baptism children of God, 
and inheritors of the kingdom of heaven. Perhaps, however, 
you will be able to know better what this means when you have 
an example, as it were, before you. Alice Lennox is to be Lady 
Catharine Hyde’s adopted child ; she is to have a fortune, and 
to be what people call veiy well off in the world, when she grows 
up, if she is good now. It seems as if she were a very fortunate 
little girl, and so indeed she is ; but she had a much greater 


i6 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


blessing given her when she was baptized ; and so had you, for 
then you were made God’s children, and were promised a home 
of perfect beauty and happiness in heaven, where no one can 
ever feel pain, or hunger, or thirst, or cold, or heat, but where 
you will live with God and the saints, and the holy angels for 
ever. There is something, however, which we must always 
remember, or we shall lose these great blessings. If Alice 
Lennox were to be very ungrateful, and to disobey Lady 
Catharine, do you think she would receive the same kindness 
as if she were to endeavour to please her ? ’ 

‘ No,’ said Madeline ; ‘ but I don’t think Alice will like 'to 
do what Lady Catharine says, because Benson always lets her 
have her own way.’ 

‘ So much the worse for her,’ replied Mr Clifford ; * but that 
would be extremely naughty in her.’ 

‘ She is naughty very often,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Perhaps she is, but I think we had better leave her faults, 
and think of our own. I am afraid we are all naughty very 
often, and far more ungrateful to God than Alice can be to Lady 
Catharine. And there is one great fault, Ruth, which we are 
much more likely to commit against God than we are against 
any human being. I do not suppose Alice will ever be wicked 
enough to forget who gave her all her blessings ; but we do so 
constantly.’ 

‘ I don’t think we do, papa,’ said Madeline ; ‘ whenever any 
one asks us who gave us our home, and our garden, and all our 
things, we always say that it was God.’ 

‘ Yes, my dear child, I daresay you do ; but there is some- 
thing more required than merely to say it, especially when we 
remember how much greater the blessings are which God gives 
us than any we can receive from our fellow- creatures. We are 
really made God’s children, but Alice Lennox is only adopted. 
Do you know what the difference is .? ’ Ruth thought she did, 
but it was rather difficult to explain ; and Mr Clifford went on : 
‘ Look at that large tree on the bank,’ he said, ‘ see how it 
stretches out, and how thick the leaves are. There is a branch 
lying on the ground close to it ; if I were to tell you to go and 
fasten it on to the trunk, do you think it would grow .? ’ 

Madeline laughed at the idea. ‘ Oh no, papa ; we are not 
so silly as that.’ 

‘ But what would prevent it from growing ? It would be like 
the other, and be as near the trunk : what would it want ? ’ 


LAXETON PARSONAGE, 


17 


‘ The sap,’ said Ruth. 

< Yes, Ruth, you are' right, it would want the sap, which is 
constantly passing through the twigs and leaves, giving them 
life and beauty, and making them parts of one tree. But do 
you remember what was done with the pear-trees in the orchard 
last year } ’ 

‘ Yes, papa ; they were grafted.’ 

‘ Well, and what became of the grafts 1 * 

‘ Oh ! they are all living, and growing quite fast.’ 

^ So, Ruth, there is a way of letting the iDranch of a tree into 
the stock of another, so as to become one with it ; although no 
mere fastening them together will ever make them one. Now 
this, perhaps, will serve as an example to you of the difference 
between what has been done for Alice Lennox by Lady Cathar- 
ine Hyde, and what has been done for us by God. Lady 
Catharine may adopt Alice, she may in a manner fasten her on 
to herself, that is, take her into her house, and treat her as her 
child, but she can never actually make her her own. They can 
never have the same relations. But when God received us at 
our baptism. He made us members of Christ ; He joined us to 
our blessed Lord, as one of those living branches is joined to 
the trunk, by giving us His own Holy Spirit ; and therefore as 
Jesus Christ is the Son of God, so are we also the children of 
God.’ 

. ‘ Then, papa,’ said Ruth, ‘ we are all certain of going to 
heaven.’ 

‘ No, indeed, my love, very far from it ; you told me that the 
dead bough would not grow because it had no sap in it, but 
that was not always the case, was it 1 ’ 

‘ No, papa,’ exclaimed Madeline ; ‘ Thompson told me 
yesterday, that it died away, he d:’d not know how — the blight 
destroyed it, he thought.’ 

< And so the blight may destroy us, my dear child ; the blight 
of evil tempers, and vain thoughts, and idle words, until that 
blessed Spirit which was given us at our baptism shall have 
departed from us, as the sap from the dead branch ; and in 
the eye of God we shall cease to be members of Christ, and 
at the day of judgment shall not be acknowledged as His 
children.’ 

Madeline seemed considering what had been said. ‘ I hope 
we shall go to heaven,’ she replied. 

‘ We all hope so,’ said Mr Clifford, gravely ; ‘ yet we are as 

B 


i8 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


ungrateful for that hope, for having been made inheritors of the 
kingdom of heaven, as we are for having been made the mem- 
bers of Christ, and the children of God.’ 

‘ Inheritors means that we are to have it by and by, doesn’t 
it, papa?’ inquired Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; but suppose that instead of looking forward, we were 
to look back, and think of the means by which it was purchased 
for us.’ 

The children were struck by the solemnity of their father’s 
manner. ‘ We should not go to heaven, if our Saviour had not 
died for us,’ said Madeline. 

‘ No, my dear child; assuredly we should not. It is only 
because He suffered, as He did, to save us from the curse 
which was pronounced against us as being the sinful children 
of Adam, that we have any title to the happiness of a better 
world. And how often do you think we love our Saviour and 
thank Him for it ? ’ 

‘ It seems so hard, dear papa,’ said Madeline; ‘but I will try 
to-morrow.’ 

‘ To-night also, my darling, I hope ;’ and then, after a short 
pause, Mr Clifford added, ‘ see, Madeline, how lovely the 
water is, with the waves all sparkling, and that broad light 
upon it !’ 

‘ And the sands,’ exclaimed Madeline, ‘ they are quite shining; 
there is old Roger standing by his boat, just by that large rock. 
Ruth and I call it the white horse.’ 

‘ How well the trees in the park look too !’ continued Mr 
Clifford. ‘ I don’t think I ever saw them such a rich green as 
they are this year.’ 

‘ The garden is better than all,’ added Ruth ; ‘ mamma’s 
geraniums are so bright, and the roses and verbenas smell so 
sweet.’ 

’ V ‘ Yes,’ said Mr Clifford, fen^ently, ‘ it is a most beautiful 
world. But in that dark lane in Cottington, Madeline, where 
you went with me the other day to visit the poor man who 
had broken his leg, there was nothing like this to be seen, was 
there ? ’ 

‘ Oh no, papa ; the streets were all dirty and narrow, the 
tops of the houses nearly touched ; and don’t you remember the 
naughty children quarrelling?’ 

‘ The poor man was in great pain,’ said Mr Clifford, ‘ he had 
nothing to eat, and no one to. take care of him properly : I 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


19 

daresay he would like a change. There would be room for hirA 
here, if you and Ruth were to go and stay there.' 

Madeline started, and looked at her father in fear. ^ O 
papa ! how could we ? we should die.' 

Mr Clifford was silent, and Ruth raised her eyes to see his, 
to see if she could discover the reason. ‘ Our blessed Lord did 
die,’ he said, at length. ‘ The home where He dwelt, Made- 
line, was brighter than the sun, and more glorious than the 
vast blue sea. No sound of sorrow was ever heard in it, and 
no feeling of pain was ever endured in it. Millions of angels 
knelt before His throne, and worshipped Him for His unspeak- 
able greatness, and not one amongst them had ever known a 
thought of sin ! and in that home there was room for us — ^but 
only upon one condition — that He should leave it.' 

A pause followed, until Ruth said, in a gentle voice, ^ Our 
Saviour did leave it, papa.' 

‘ Yes,' continued her father, ‘ He came upon earth, which, 
even in its greatest beauty, was to Him but a land of darkness; 
and He lived, not as we live, in comfort and peace, but in 
poverty and shame, amongst the sinners who hated Him. And 
when He had taught them all that it was good for them to 
know, and had cured their diseases, and helped them in their 
difficulties, He gave Himself up to a death of agony, to save 
them and us — to save you, and me, and Madeline, from punish- 
ment.' 

Again Mr Clifford was silent, and Ruth’s gaze turned in- 
voluntarily to the clear sky, whilst Madeline whispered, ‘ It is 
not hard now, papa.' 

‘ It ought not to be hard at any time, my dear,' replied her 
father ; ‘ and that it is so is the greatest proof we can have of 
the sinfulness of our nature.' 

‘ It would be much easier if we could see our Saviour,’ said 
Ruth, timidly. 

‘ And, perhaps, you think that for that reason it might be 
easier for Alice to love Lady Catharine for her kindness than 
for us to love God for His ; was not that in your mind, Ruth?' 
Ruth looked half pleased and half frightened, as she generally 
did when her thoughts were read. ‘ It may be so,' continued 
Mr Clifford ; ‘ but it is to our shame and sorrow that it should 
be ; and when we are called to give an account of our lives to 
God, it will be a fearful thing to have to confess, that we have en- 
joyed His blessings, and yet have never been thankful for them.' 


20 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


* But if we can’t be ?’ said Madeline. 

‘ We can pray that we may be/ replied her father, ‘ and we 
can repeat to ourselves all the good things which God has done 
for us. We can read the Bible, and go to church, and we can 
try to please our Saviour by being good-tempered, and humble, 
and sincere, and giving up our money for the poor, and going 
to visit them. If we do all this, we shall certainly in time love 
God with all our hearts — better, yes, far better, than we do our 
dearest earthly friends.’ Madeline became more thoughtful 
than before ; and as Mr Clifford rose to leave the arbour, she 
turned to Ruth, and said, ‘ I liked talking to papa to-night 
more than any play.’ 


CHAPTER III. 

N early a week passed by, and little was heard of Alice 
Lennox. On the day of the funeral she had been taken 
to the Manor, and since then she had been seen walking with 
Lady Catharine through one of the long avenues ; but whether 
she was happy, or how she behaved, or whether Lady Catharine 
really treated her as she had said, like her own child, no one 
could find out. Mr and Mrs Clifford talked of her very often, 
and Madeline and Ruth always chose to walk in the road by 
the park to the sea-shore, in the hope of catching a glimpse of 
her in passing. But the people in the village talked -more than 
the family at the parsonage, for in a country place every event is 
thought a great deal of ; and though few of the cottagers knew 
anything of Alice, except from having seen her playing in the 
garden, or walking with her nurse, they all felt interested about 
her, and wished much to find out whether she was likely to be 
satisfied and happy in her new home. The person from whom 
most had been learned about the affairs of the white house, was 
Benson, the lady’s maid, or nurse, or housekeeper — no one 
knew exactly what to call her, for she seemed to do everything. 
She was a little, bustling woman, with a quick, sharp voice, yet 
a very civil manner, extremely fond of finery, and a great gossip. 
The poor villagers thought at first that she was much too smart 
a person for them ; and only Mrs Dawkins, who kept a good 
sized shop for tea, sugar, oatmeal, and other necessary things, 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


21 


and who was considered a very important person, had dreamed 
of asking her to drink tea. But Benson soon gave her neigh- 
bours to understand that she liked going amongst them better 
than staying at home, and that as long as she could have a 
comfortable seat, and a warm cup of tea, and permission to 
talk, she cared for little else. From her, therefore, all that 
could be learned about Mrs Lennox was learnt ; and a great deal 
more which was not at all true. Benson had only lived in the 
family a few months before she came to Laneton, and when she 
found herself at a loss in answering the questions which were 
put to her, made no scruple at inventing. She gave a whole 
history of Lady Catharine’s acquaintance with Mrs Lennox, 
though she had only been told that it began at school. She de- 
scribed Mrs Lennox’s marriage, though she knew nothing moie 
than that her husband was an officer. She repeated long conversa- 
tions between her mistress and Lady Catharine, not one syllable 
of which she had ever heard, beyond a few words which passed 
while she was preparing the tea, or putting the room in order. 
Benson’s besetting sin was vanity, which showed itself gener- 
ally in a love of talking and being listened to ; and when per- 
sons indulge in this fault, there is no saying into what mischief 
it may lead them. She was not indeed aware of what she was 
doing, but this did not make the fault at all the less, nor did it 
hinder her from the painful consequences which are sure to 
follow it. 

To the great surprise of the villagers, Alice Lennox was taken 
to the Manor, and Benson was left behind ; it was thought at 
first to put a few things in order at the house, or to take care of 
the little property which was to be sold. But Benson did not 
stay at the house; it was given in charge to a woman whom 
Lady Catharine had known for many years ; Lady Catharine’s 
own maid packed up the few articles which were to be kept for 
little Alice, in remembrance of her mother; and the very morning 
after the funeral, when every one was expecting that Benson 
would call on Mrs Dawkins, and give the history of these strange 
doings, it was declared by two or three persons, whose word could 
not be doubted, that Benson, with a large trunk and a band-box, 
had been seen on the top of the London coach, and that she was 
certainly by that time many miles from Laneton. Different 
feelings were expressed when this news was brought. Some 
wondered a great deal about Benson, others pitied poor Alice, left 
without the only person whom she had really been fond of, except 


22 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


her mamma, for amongst the many things which Benson repeated, 
the one she persisted in most, was the fact that little Alice could 
not bear the sight of Lady Catharine Hyde. 

The intelligence of Benson’s departure soon reached Mrs 
Clifford, who, though she said less, thought a great deal more of 
Alice than any one else, -and did truly wish to know if the poor 
child had suffered much from the separation. She was not sur- 
prised at receiving no communication as to anything that was 
done. Lady Catharine Hyde had always her own peculiar way 
of doing everything, and no one could at all judge what was likely 
to be her conduct, from knowing how other persons would prob- 
ably act in a similar case. Madeline and Ruth were from this 
circumstance separated from their little companion at the very 
moment when she was most likely to want them ; and Mrs 
Clifford now and then began to think that it might be Lady 
Catharine’s intention to put a stop to their being together for the 
future. One morning, however, at the beginning of the second 
week of Alice’s removal to the Manor, just as Mrs Clifford had 
seated herself at the breakfast-table, and was bidding the children 
summon their papa from his usual saunter round the garden, 
Madeline perceived Lady Catharine’s footman approaching the 
gate. 

‘ News, news, mamma ! ’ she exclaimed, returning quickly, 
and allowing Ruth to obey the orders alone, ‘ news of Alice ! 
Griffiths is come from the Manor, and he has a note, I am nearly . 
quite certain.’ 

‘ And I am nearly quite certain that you are deciding, as you 
generally do, rather hastily, my dear.’ 

Madeline was hasty, but for once she had guessed rightly. 
There was a note from Lady Catharine, begging that Mrs 
Clifford would call upon her that afternoon, if possible, and 
bring her little girls with her. No reason w'as given for the 
request, and Mrs Clifford, having an engagement for the day, was 
inclined to send an excuse ; but her husband begged her not. He . 
told her that it was an opportunity for knowing something of 
Alice’s situation, and might be a means of being of use to her, and 
that Lady Catharine never wished to see any one without some 
good motive ; it was therefore settled that as soon as the chil- 
dren’s dinner was over, they should set off for the Manor. The 
lessons were not done as well as usual that morning, for Madeline 
thought it necessary to run often to the window to decide if it 
were likely to rain, and Ruth asked several times what o’clock 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


23 


it was, and complained of her sum as being very hard, when in 
fact it was just like one she had done only the day before. 
Di^er too was hurried over, though Mr Clifford came in to 
luncheon at the same time, and generally there was nothing the 
children liked better than making their papa stay and talk to 
them till they had finished. Even before Ruth was ready, 
Madeline was playing with her knife and fork, and longing to 
leave her chair ; and when at length Mrs Clifford gave permis- 
sion to go, there was a race from the bottom of the stairs to the 
top, and a scramble to see which could be dressed the first. 

A visit to the Manor was an event which had never happened 
before; and, notwithstanding their shyness, they were anxious to 
know what the place was like, and very desirous of seeing Alice. 
Though living in the same village, they had seen but little of 
Lady Catharine Hyde, only meeting her occasionally in a walk, 
or when she had been with Mrs Lennox ; at which time the chief 
notice she had taken of them was to hush, as Madeline said, and 
tell them that they must be sent home if they did not learn to play 
quietly. Lady Catharine was not a pleasant person for children 
to be with. She was tall, thin, and stately ; she moved slowly, and 
talked in a firm, decided way, as if sure that no one could think 
of differing from her. Her voice was low, but not very gentle ; 
and her manner, which was particularly grave, often gave the 
idea that she was not entirely pleased at what was going on. 
Then her features were rather plain, and she was always dressed 
in black, with a widow’s cap, which seemed peculiarly unsuited 
to anything like play ; and all these trifles put together made 
her rather an awful person, particularly as she was known to 
be extremely precise in all her ways, and never to have been 
accustomed to children. Madeline and Ruth were afraid of Lady 
Catharine, and they knew that Alice was the same ; and this 
was their reason for thinking that no one could be cheerful and 
happy at the Manor : but if they had been a little older, they would 
probably have seen that Lady Catharine Hyde was a person to be 
loved as well as feared ; that she was in her heart kind, and con- 
siderate, and careful for every one ; that she was self-denying in 
all her actions ; and full of holy thoughts and wishes to do 
God’s will ; and they would then have learned to think more of 
her goodness, and less of that sternness of manner which many 
excellent persons acquire without being aware of it. But it was 
very natural that such young children should stand in awe of a 
lady who seemed so far above them in everything ; and even the 


24 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


house in which Lady Catharine lived, and the garden and park 
belonging to it, served to increase the feeling. 

Haseley Manor was a large red brick mansion ; it had seven 
windows in front and five at the side ; a very broad flight of stone 
steps, with an ornamental iron railing, led up to the door; and- 
from the top of these steps could be seen the whole length of a 
splendid beech-tree avenue, at the end of which was the lodge- 
gate. There was a large space of ground about the house, but 
though it was called a park, it was principally planted with trees 
in straight rows, and looked somewhat formal and dull ; and the 
garden close to the house was laid out in the same style, with 
long walks and narrow flower-beds, divided by low box hedges, 
and clipped yew-trees, and the whole shut in by a high wall. 
This garden was kept with extreme care ; scarcely a weed was 
to be seen in the borders, or a leaf upon the walks ; and Lady 
Catharine Hyde’s greenhouse and hothouse were considered as 
patterns for all the neighbourhood. Madeline and Ruth had 
great notions of the grandeur of everything they were to see at 
the Manor ; and whilst they were with their mamma they thought 
it would be less alarming to be in Lady Catharine’s presence, 
than when they had been left, as it were, under her care whilst 
playing with Alice at the white house ; so that they set off for 
their visit in high spirits. As they drew near, however, they 
began to walk quietly, instead of running in and out amongst 
the trees. Ruth put her hand within her mamma’s, from a 
feeling that she would be a protection ; and when they stood 
upon the top of the steps, and the great bell was rung, even 
Madeline’s smiles went away, and her voice almost sank into a 
whisper. The door was opened by a tall, gray-haired man, 
having a stiff, soldierlike manner, who, to Madeline’s eye, looked 
quite like a gentleman ; but she soon forgot him, in wonder at 
the size of the square hall into which they were admitted, and 
the broad oak staircase, with its carved railings and polished 
steps, which led to the upper rooms. Mrs Clifford and the two 
children followed the butler through a long passage lighted by a 
window of painted glass at the farther end ; and then, turning 
to the right, the man pushed aside some folding-doors covered 
with green cloth, and they entered a small apartment, hung with 
pictures in dark frames, and containing nothing but some high- 
backed chairs, and one or two curiously-shaped tables. Both 
Madeline and Ruth were a little disappointed, but in another 
moment their highest expectations were satisfied ; for, without 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


25 


stopping, the butler opened a second door, and they were ushered 
into the drawing-room, in which Lady Catharine was sitting. 
So large a room, so beautifully furnished, with gilt chairs, and 
sofas covered with crimson damask, and glasses reaching from 
the ceiling to the floor, and inlaid cabinets ornamented with 
china vases and figures, they had never seen or imagined. Yet 
it was not a cheerful nor even a very comfortable room. There 
was a quaint, formal look about it. The chairs were placed in 
regular ^order against the walls ; the sofas appeared as if they 
were never intended to be used ; and the tables had no books, 
or work, or flowers upon them ; except, indeed, the little round 
one covered with purple cloth, which stood in the deep bay- 
window by Lady Catharine’s side, and on which lay one or two 
handsomely bound volumes, and a small rosewood work-box. 

The two children sought eagerly for Alice Lennox ; but they 
did not discover her until Lady Catharine rose, and then they 
perceived that Alice was seated on a stool, with her elbow rest- 
ing on the window-seat, and a book before her. She looked up 
as soon as she heard Lady Catharine speak to Mrs Cliflbrd, and 
smiled when she saw her little playfellows ; but, except this, she 
took no notice * f them, and the children almost doubted, as 
they watched he/, whether this could be the Alice Lennox who 
had always been so delighted to see them, and had expressed 
herself so warmly. The change appeared at first to be in her 
deep mourning dress, at least Madeline fancied that was the 
only thing which could make her seem so different ; but Ruth 
thought that her eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and 
she remarked a certain curl of the under lip, which was always 
to be observed when Alice was out of humour. Certainly either 
the dress, or the manner, or a little ill -temper, had made her 
far less pleasing than she usually was. Not that Alice had any 
particular beauty to boast of, but she was generally noticed as 
sensible-looking and well-mannered, with a very good-natured 
expression of face. She was nearly a year older than Ruth and 
Madeline, and very unlike them in appearance, for her hair and 
eyes were brown, and her complexion was so dark, that she had 
sometimes been taken for a foreigner. She was extremely quiet 
in all her ways when with strangers, but exactly the contrary 
when with those whom she knew ; and her very quick, bright 
eye now and then had an expression which made people think 
she was cunning ; but this was not entirely the case, for Alice 
had been well taught by her mamma, before she became too ill 


26 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


to attend to her ; and she had not yet acquired any settled bad 
habits, though by nature she did like to contrive means for 
gaining her own point, and was apt to make excuses which were 
not really true. She had great faults, certainly ; but one thing 
there was in her character which gave reason to hope that she 
might in time improve. She could respect and admire other 
persons for their goodness, though she did not try to be like 
them ; and notwithstanding her fear of Lady Catharine, she had 
some pleasure in being with her, because she knew that she was 
a great deal better than common people. 

Lady Catharine having welcomed Mrs Clifford, next turned to 
the children ; and her manner was not as stern as they had before 
thought it. She held their hands in hers, and stooped to kiss 
them ; and then, as she looked at Alice, some painful thought 
seemed to cross her mind, for some -moments passed before she 
again spoke to Mrs Clifford. What she said neither Madeline 
nor Ruth cared much to hear, for they were longing to be alone 
with Alice, who now came up and stood by their side, but with- 
out taking any other notice of them. Mrs Clifford wished to 
tell them all to go into the garden, but she did not know whether 
Lady Catharine would like it ; and a conversation began, during 
which the three children sat together, not venturing even to 
whisper. 

If this was to be their visit to the Manor, Ruth thought they 
might as well have stayed at home. 

At last, however, most fortunately for her, a name was men- 
tioned, which gave Lady Catharine an opportunity for bringing 
forward the subject she desired. Mrs Clifford alluded to Ben- 
son, and the colour mounted to Alice’s cheek, while Lady 
Catharine drew herself up, and said, ‘ If you like to go into 
the garden, my dears, you can. Not the kitchen-garden, mind, 
Alice,’ she continued ; ‘ and you must not ask for any fruit ; 
and be sure you don’t gather any flowers ; and, Alice,’ she 
added, as the children reached the door, ‘ keep away from the 
fish-pond.’ 

Alice said ‘ Yes ’ rather quickly, and, as if thankful to be 
released, ran out of the room, leaving the door open, which she 
was immediately called upon to come back and shut. ‘ Now, 
run,’ she said, when they had passed the ante-room, and the 
green doors were closed behind them ; and, without another 
word, she led the way through the long passage, into another 
just like it, and down a few steps into a small stone hall, which 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


27 


opened upon the garden. Madeline and Ruth followed in de- 
light. To have Alice all to themselves was a pleasure they had 
not ventured to expect ; but they were nearly breathless before 
Alice stopped, so quickly she ran along the broad walk and the 
raised terrace at the end, till she reached a small building with 
a porch supported by two pillars, round which clustered roses, 
and honeysuckles, and clematis. Within this porch was a 
neat, little room, containing only a common table and some 
rough chairs ; in one of which Alice seated herself, and, catch- 
ing hold of Ruth’s dress, exclaimed, ‘ I am so glad you are 
come ! — ^Idss me, Ruth, do ! ’ 

^ Why didn’t you kiss us just now?’ said Madeline; ‘I thought 
you were cross.’ 

‘ How could I ? I was afraid,’ replied Alice, ‘ Lady Catharine 
would have said it was odd.’ 

‘ Lady Catharine ! but I thought she was to be your’ 

‘ Hush ! Madeline,’ interrupted Ruth. ‘ Alice, dear, do you' 
like it ?’ 

‘ Like it — like what ? — like being here ? — no, and I never 
shall.’ 

‘ But what do you do ? — have you many lessons ? — is Lady 
Catharine strict?’ inquired Madeline. 

‘ It ’s not the lessons,’ continued Alice; ‘ I don’t care for them.’ 

‘ But you want some one to play with, don’t you ? ’ said 
Ruth ; ‘ Madeline and I knew you would.’ Poor Alice leaned 
her head upon the table, and sobbed. ‘ Don’t cry so,’ said 
Madeline, putting her arm round her neck ; ‘ we will ask 
mamma to let us come and see you very often, and it won’t be 
so bad by and by.’ 

Alice shook her head, and exclaimed, almost passionately, 

* It must be just as bad ; they won’t let me see Benson — and 
I can talk to Benson, and I love her ; but I don’t love any 
one else.’ 

Ruth drew back a little vexed. ^ Then it is no use for us to 
come and see you,’ she said. 

^ O Ruth, how jfoolish !’ exclaimed Madeline. ‘ Don’t mind, 
Alice, we will come whenever we can ; but why won’t they let 
you see Benson ?’ 

^ I don’t know,’ replied Alice, becoming a little more com- 
posed ; ‘ Lady Catharine says she teaches me wrong things, 
and Marsham thinks she tells stories ; but I don’t care for ail 
that.’ 


28 


LANE'rON PARSONAGE. 


‘ Is Benson gone quite away?’ asked Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; the very day I came, Lady Catharine made me say 
good-bye — and Benson cried so much ; but she will come back 
again, I know, for she said she would.’ 

‘ That will be no good to you, if you are not allowed to be 
with her,’ said Madeline. 

‘ But I shall see her, for she told me just before she went, 
that she should come back to Laneton to live ; she is to help 
Mrs Dyer, work, make caps and things, and she will find some 
way of seeing me.’ 

‘ Well, I hope she will,’ said Madeline, without considering 
whether what she was saying was right. ‘ I can’t bear to see 
you cry, Alice ; but should you like Lady Catharine if she was 
kinder about Benson ? ’ 

‘ I should like her better than Marsham,’ replied Alice ; ‘ I 
can’t bear her ; Lady Catharine tells me stories sometimes, and 
she gave me some sugar-plums yesterday ; but Marsham never 
gives me anything.’ 

‘ And does Marsham put you to bed, and help you to dress, 
like Benson ? ’ inquired Ruth. 

‘ Oh no. Lady Catharine says I must learn to do what I 
want myself; so Marsham only fastens my frock. I don’t care 
about it at all in the day time, but it makes me cry very much at 
night. I want my own dear mamma back again, and I think 
Lady Catharine wants her too.’ And Alice cried again. 

‘ But about going to bed,’ said Ruth, trying to divert her 
thoughts ; ‘ do you sleep in a room alone ? ’ 

‘Yes, a little sort of closet, inside Lady Catharine’s bed- 
room ; she comes to kiss me every night.’ 

‘ Then she loves you very much,’ said Madeline. 

Alice looked up suddenly, and dashing her hand across her 
eyes, and trying to smile, she answered, ‘ I like her now and 
then, when she talks kindly, and doesn’t look so tall.’ 

‘ Does she “ hush ” now ? ’ inquired Madeline. 

‘ Sometimes, a little. ‘ I don’t run about here as I did at 
home ; but she makes a great many rules. I am forced to get 
up and be dressed by half-past seven ; and she is so particular 
about putting things away — and then I must never go into the 
kitchen-garden or the greenhouse, and must not run upon the 
green walks — and I am obliged always to go directly I am 
called.’ 

‘ So are we,’ said Madeline. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


29 


* Yes, but I am sure your papa and mamma never look as 
Lady Catharine does, if you stay a few minutes longer ; and 
you are able to go wherever you like all over the house/ 

* And so are you too, I suppose,’ said Ruth. 

‘ No, indeed, I am not; there is one whole set of rooms 
which I am never allowed to go into. Look, do you see ? just 
behind the evergreens and the large yew-tree.’ 

‘ Where those three windows are ? ’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes, and there are some others looking out into the servants’ 
court ; Anne the housemaid told me. I do so want to see what 
is in them.’ 

‘ I daresay you will by and by,’ observed Madeline, ‘ when 
you grow older.’ 

‘ 1 don’t know ; I try to peep through the key-hole now, but 
I can see nothing but a dark passage.’ 

‘ But if the door is locked, it is just the same to you as if 
there were no rooms,’ said Ruth. 

‘ No, indeed, it is not. I should not think about them if 
they were not there ; but when I look at the windows, I can’t 
help longing to go in ; and, besides, the door is not always 
locked.’ 

' ‘Would Lady Catharine be veiy angry if you were to do any- 
thing she told you not.^’ asked Madeline. 

The question seemed to bring back something disagreeable to 
Alice’s mind ; for the curl of the lip, which Ruth had noticed 
when she first saw her, was again visible. ‘ Wouldn’t she be 
angry !’ she exclaimed. ‘ If you had only heard what she said 
to me this morning ! — that if I was her child, I must do ex- 
actly, in all things, what she wished. It was because I wanted 
Benson that she talked so ; and she told me that I must give 
up thinking about it ; and that I must believe her when she 
said that it was better for me not to be with Benson ; and then 
she began again about going into those rooms ; and at last she 
declared that if she ever found me there, she would send me 
away to school.’ 

‘And do you really think she would ?’ asked Ruth. 

‘ Yes, indeed ; but I don’t know that I should much mind. 
I don’t seem to mind anything now.’ 

‘ Only you will like having us to play with,’ said Ruth. 

Alice did not answer, for her thoughts were wandering back 
to her own mamma and the white house ; and before Ruth had 
time to repeat her words, the sound of a little bell reached them. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


‘ That is for us ! ’ exclaimed Alice ; and she sprang from her 
seat. 

^ O Alice ! one moment/ said Madeline, catching hold of her 
frock ; ‘ when shall you come and see us ? ’ 

^ I can’t tell ; you must ask for me yourselves ; don’t keep 
me now.’ 

‘ You never used to care about waiting,’ said Madeline. 

^ No, I know I did not ; but Lady Catharine will be angry.’ 

^ I should not care for making her angry if she is so cross,’ 
replied Madeline. 

Alice’s foot was on the step of the doorway ; but she stopped, 
and, turning round, said, ‘ I do care for making her angry some- 
times ; and so would you too, if you were me ; ’ and she ran 
towards the house followed by Madeline. Ruth waited for an 
instant behind, feeling quite puzzled by all that had been said, 
and as much at a loss as ever to understand whether Alice was 
likely to be happy at Haseley Manor. 

The children did not go into the drawing-room again, for 
Lady Catharine and Mrs Clifford met them in the passage. 
Alice became stiff and quiet ; but her face brightened when 
Lady Catharine, looking at her kindly, said, ‘ that Mrs Clifford 
had promised that her little playfellows should often come and 
see her ; ’ and she ventured to whisper to Ruth, at parting, that 
she hoped they would ask their mamma to bring them again 
very soon. 


CHAPTER IV, 



HERE was much for Madeline and Ruth to talk about 


J- when they were again alone with their mamma. They 
felt certain she could tell them more about Alice than they had 
learned themselves, as it was only natural to suppose that Lady 
Catharine had said a great deal about her, and they immedi- 
ately began asking questions : but Mrs Clifford silenced them 
by saying, that she never repeated what was mentioned to her 
in private conversation, and after this they knew it would be in 
vain to try to find out anything. They consoled themselves, 
however, by detailing all that had passed in the garden, and 
asking their mamma’s opinion as to the kind of life which 
Alice seemed to lead. Ruth was especially struck with the 
difference between the constant restraint which Alice was now 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


31 


obliged to bear and the freedom she had enjoyed at her own 
home ; and Madeline thought more of the longing which she 
felt certain she should have to explore the rooms which Lady 
Catharine had forbidden to be entered ; whilst both of them 
pitied Alice extremely for having to part from Benson, and 
declared that Lady Catharine must be very hard-hearted. Mrs 
Clifford told them that whilst they were so young they had 
better not attempt to judge of the actions of grown-up people, 
as they frequently had some good motive which they did not 
think it right to explain. As to Benson, she had been very 
kind to Alice, but it was certain that she had taught her many 
wrong things ; and Lady Catharine could not do better than 
place Alice out of the reach of a person who would be likely to 
lead her into mischief. 

The answer satisfied Madeline, but not Ruth. The more she 
thought about it, the more sad it seemed that Alice should be 
thus almost taken away from everything which had before given 
her pleasure, and be removed to a new home amongst strangers : 
she recollected her tears, and the sorrowful tone in which she 
had said that she wanted her own dear mamma back again, 
until at last her own heart grew heavy,, and She felt as if she 
could almost sit down and cry too. As the evening closed in, 
the weather became gloomy, and Ruth’s spirits were more and 
more depressed. Instead of running in the garden she was 
obliged to stay in the house, for the sky was of a thick, dull 
gray, and the rain pattered cheerlessly against the windows. 
Poor Rover came and looked into the room, but found no one 
inclined to join him in a game of play ; and he shook his 
shaggy head in disappointment, and slunk back to his kennel. 
Generally speaking, Ruth managed to occupy herself very well 
Avithin doors, and sometimes even preferred it to going out ; but 
this wet evening came when she was not prepared for it, and 
she could not so easily overcome vexation as Madeline, who, 
when she saw it begin to rain, provided herself with a puzzle 
and a book, and made no complaints to any one. 

* The school children will have a wet walk, I am afraid,’ said 
Mrs Clifford, as her husband came into the room. 

^ What school children, mamma ? ’ inquired Ruth ; ^ what 
are they all coming for ? ’ 

‘ Not all, my dear,’ said Mr Clifford; ‘only the first class. 
You know they generally do come to me on a Wednesday 
evening:.’ 


32 


ANETON PARSONAGE. 


‘ Oh yes, I forgot ; but, papa, I wish you would let me hear 
what you say to them/ 

‘ It would not interest you much, my dear ; you would only 
listen to a great many things which you know ; and if there was 
anything new, probably you would not understand it/ 

‘ But, papa, I should like it,’ said Ruth, glad of any excuse 
for something to occupy her thoughts when she was uncomfort- 
able. ‘ Will you just let me sit in the room ; I won’t speak or 
interrupt.’ 

‘ And me too, please, papa,’ said Madeline, leaving her seat, 
and in her hurry throwing the puzzle to the ground. 

Mr Clifford laughed at this sudden fancy, but made no objec- 
tion ; and a few minutes afterwards the two children were in 
their papa’s study, each with a piece of work in her hand, wait- 
ing the arrival of the first class of the village school. ‘ What 
will they say to-night, papa ? ’ asked Madeline : ‘ anything that 
we know ? ’ 

‘ One of the Psalms, and the Catechism,’ replied Mr Clifford ; 
‘ and then I shall try and explain any parts which may be 
difficult.’ 

‘ As you explained to us, the other night, that first question,’ 
said Ruth ; ‘ but, papa, they won’t be able to understand it all 
as well as we do, because you cannot talk to them about Alice 
Lennox.’ 

I ‘ No ; but I may give them some other example, which may 
serve as well ’ 

‘ What you said came into my head this morning at the 
Manor,’ said Ruth, ‘ when we sat quiet in the drawing-room, 
and mamma was talking to Lady Catharine ; but I think now, 
papa, that it will be harder for Alice to love Lady Catharine 
than for us to love God, because Alice has so many things to 
give up, and we have not.’ 

‘ Nothing, Ruth?’ asked Mr Clifford, laying down the book 
which he held in his hand. 

‘ Nothing that I can remember, papa/ 

‘ We will ask the school children presently,’ continued Mr 
Clifford ; ‘ they are older than you, and probably will be able to 
answer better.’ Ruth’s face flushed, and she bent her eyes upon 
the ground ; for her pride was hurt in having it supposed that 
the children of the village could answer any questions better 
than herself, Mr Clifford went on reading ; and Madeline, who 
was quick in seeing when her sister was vexed, stole gently to 


LANETON PAESONAGE. 


33 


her side, and gave her a kiss. Ruth remained in the same 
position for several minutes, trying to find out what her papa 
meant ; not so much because she cared to know, as because she 
did not like to appear ignorant. Presently the tread of footsteps 
was heard in the passage, followed by a short knock, and Mr 
Clifford, opening the door, admitted the six little girls who were 
come for their weekly instruction. Madeline looked up, and 
smiled, and nodded, and asked two of them how their mothers 
were ; but Ruth took no notice. She had a knot in her thread, 
and it seemed as if she could think of nothing but how to undo 
it. Mr Clifford looked towards her, and became rather thought- 
ful, but he said nothing ; and after a short delay, the class 
repeated the thirty-fourth psalm. Ruth observed all that went 
on, and was forced to own that she could not have done better 
herself ; but she had no notion that they could answer her papa’s 
questions, and was annoyed at the idea of poor children, who 
were dressed shabbily, and had learned neither French nor 
music, being put in comparison with her. Madeline, too, looked 
up from her work, and drew her chair nearer to a little pale 
child, not much bigger than herself, with the intention of 
prompting her if required ; but no such help was necessar>^ 
Margaret Dawson had been at school since she was six years 
old, and from ill-health had been obliged to spend much of her 
time in-doors, where she had nothing to amuse her except her 
work and a few books ; and from early instruction, and strict 
attention, she was as well-informed upon all the important 
points of religion as many of the best educated amongst her 
superiors in rank. She knew well what was meant by the great 
gift bestowed upon Christians in their baptism ; she understood 
how awful a blessing it was to have been made ‘ a member of 
Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of 
heaven and when Mr Clifford asked her the same sort of 
question which he had put to Ruth — as to what things persons 
were obliged to give up when they were admitted into the catholic 
church of Christ, she answered at once — ‘ That they were to re- 
nounce the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanities of 
this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh.’ 

‘ The children knew more than you expected, Ruth, did they 
not?’ said Mr Clifford, when the class was dismissed. 

Ruth said ‘ Yes ’ in her usual quiet tone, and taking up her 
work was going to leave the room. 

‘ You are in a great hurry to run away,’ said her papa : ‘ 1 

C 


34 LANETON PARSONAGE, 

thought you would have wished to stay and talk a little \vith 
me.’ 

‘ I understand about giving things up now, papa,’ replied 
Ruth ; ‘ it is in the second question in the catechism.’ 

‘ You understand because little Margaret Dawson told you,’ 
said Mr Clifford, gravely. 

‘ I don’t know,’ replied Ruth ; and again she seemed anxious 
to go. 

‘ Not now, my dear child,’ said Mr Clifford, drawing her 
towards him, and making her stand by his side : ^ Madeline 
may go if she likes it, but you must stay a little longer.’ Made- 
line was curious, but she did not venture to ask any questions, 
and went away. Ruth felt that her papa perceived what was 
passing in her mind, and she did not dare look in his face. Mr 
Clifford waited to see if she would be inclined to speak, and then 
said, ‘ Is it really true, Ruth, that you do not know how you 
learned the answer to my question ? ’ Ruth was silent, ^ Or,’ 
continued Mr Clifford, ‘ is it that you are too proud to confess 
it ? — that you do not like to own that one of the village children 
was able to answer better than yourself.?’ 

‘ I could have told when she did, papa,’ said Ruth : ‘ I thought 
about it just before she spoke.’ 

‘ But you could not have done so at first — which shows that 
Margaret Dawson was quicker at understanding than yourself.’ 

‘ You did not ask her the same question, papa,’ replied Ruth. 

Mr Clifford looked extremely distressed. ‘ This is not honest 
in you, Ruth,’ he said ; ‘ it is trying to escape from confessing your 
ignorance by saying what you know is not strictly true. I did ask 
Margaret the same question, though I put it in different words ; 
and now I will ask it you again : “ What is it we are all required 
to renounce, or give up, when we are made by baptism members 
of Christ’s holy catholic church.?”’ Ruth repeated the answer. 

And what is meant by renouncing the works of the devil? ’ 

‘ Giving up naughty things,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ And what are the naughty things which children are most 
often tempted to do .? ’ Ruth twisted the thread of her work, 
and did not appear willing to speak. M will tell you,’ con- 
tinued Mr Clifford : ‘ lying is one ; and selfishness is a second ; 
and ill-temper, and env^y, and disobedience, are others, besides 
many more which I need not name now ; but I do not believe 
that your great temptation, my dear Ruth, lies in any one of 
these things. I think you have in a degree broken the promise 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


35 


of your baptism within the last quarter of an hour — that 
perhaps you are breaking it now ; but it is not by ill-temper, 
or disobedience — will you think, and tell me how?’ Still Ruth 
hesitated. ‘ I cannot see your thoughts,’ continued Mr Clifford, 

‘ but if I were able to do it, should I not have discovered just 
now that you considered yourself very superior to the school 
children ; that you were proud of having had more instruction, 
and considered it impossible that they could know anything as 
well as yourself? and is not pride one of the works of the devil 
which you have promised to renounce ? ’ 

‘ I did not know I was proud, papa,’ murmured Ruth. 

‘ Very likely not,’ replied her father, ‘ the fault is one of the 
last which we are likely to see or own ; but there is a story told 
us in the Bible of two men — one proud, and the other humble— ' 
when you have heard it, perhaps you will be more able to see 
which of the two you are like. The words are our blessed 
Lord’s : He says, “Two men went up into the temple to pray, 
the one a Pharisee, and the other a publican. The Pharisee 
stood and prayed thus with himself : God, I thank Thee, that I 
am not as other men are, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or 
even as this publican. I fast twice in the week, I give tithes 
of all that I possess. And the publican, standing afar off, 
would not lift up so much as his eyes unto heaven, but smote' 
upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me, a sinner.” 
We will venture to change these words, and suppose them to 
be, “ God, I thank Thee, that I am not as these children are, 
poor, and dull, and ignorant. I am clever in reading, and 
quick in remembering”’ 

‘ Papa, papa ! ’ interrupted Ruth. 

‘ You are shocked, my dearest child,’ said Mr Clifford, ^ and 
so am I, but there is One who must be infinitely more shocked — 
the God who knows all your blindness, and sinfulness, and sees 
that you, notwithstanding, boast to yourself of wisdom. Do you 
think your thoughts have appeared to Him like the humble 
thoughts of His children ? ’ Ruth’s eyes glistened, and the work 
dropped from her hand. ‘ I need not say to you,’ continued 
Mr Clifford, ‘that the reason I am speaking seriously upon this 
subject, is not because you could not answer me. It signifies 
little whether you are clever, and able to reply to anything 
which may be asked you ; but it signifies a great deal that you 
should be humble, because without humility no one can enter 
into heaven.’ Ruth for the moment did feel humble, and, 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


36 , 

scarcely daring to raise her eyes, asked to be forgiven. ^ And 
is my forgiveness all you want 1 ’ said Mr Clifford, as he 
kissed her fondly ; ‘ can I keep you from being proud another 
time ? ’ 

Ruth blushed, and then said, ‘ she would remember at night 
in her prayers.’ 

‘ And not at night only, but at once,’ continued her father : 

‘ we may neither of us live till night ; and if, besides asking 
God’s pardon, you like to show me that you are really wishing 
to be humble, you can do it by thinking whether there is any- 
thing else in the question we have been talking about, which 
you do not quite understand ; but you must go away now, 
because I am busy.’ Ruth left the room, and instead of going 
to play with her sister, spent the next ten minutes alone, reading 
over the catechism, and asking God to give her a humble spirit, 
that she might not be tempted again to forget the promise of 
her baptism. 


CHAPTER V. 

R UTH’S wishes were very sincere, and for several days she 
really did try to remember what her papa had said; but 
no fault can be cured without trouble, especially one which is 
hidden' in our hearts like pride. Ruth was indolent, and did 
not watch herself, and, moreover, she soon forgot that it was 
necessary to seek assistance from God. When her papa spoke 
to her, she went directly and prayed against her fault, because 
she was told to do it ; but she did not continue doing so every 
night and morning. Generally, she omitted what she ought to 
have asked, till her prayers were ended, and then she put off 
doing it till the next opportunity ; and thus, though she formed 
very good resolutions, she was not able to keep them, since, if 
the wisest of men cannot make themselves good by their own 
efforts, still less can children. Ruth’s pride, therefore, was even 
a greater difficulty than Madeline’s thoughtlessness ; and though 
sometimes, when her sister was complaining of the trouble of 
being good, Ruth’s conscience smote her because she did not 
try more earnestly herself, she used more frequently to indulge 
her self-conceit, and to join in condemning Madeline’s conduct, 
without inquiring into her own. 


• LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


37 


Three weeks •went by, and Alice Lennox was kept at the 
Manor — like a prisoner, the children said — for she was not 
seen beyond the gates, except when she went to church on a 
Sunday and in the week days, and then she walked demurely by 
Lady Catharine’s side, and never noticed her former com- 
panions, except by a little nod, if they happened to meet in the 
churchyard or the road. Once they had been asked to drink 
tea, and they were in high spirits at the idea of going ; but 
Lady Catharine was suffering from a bad headache when the 
evening came, and wrote to put them off, and they had not 
been invited since. Madeline and her sister began to despair 
of ever seeing Alice, but Mr Clifford assured them that this 
was not at all Lady Catharine’s wish ; and in the course of the 
next week a second invitation came. It was accepted directly, 
and at four o’clock (the time particularly mentioned in the note) 
the two little girls were sent to the Manor under the care of a 
servant. They were shown into the drawing-room, but to their 
surprise no one was there. The room, in other respects, looked 
just as it had done at their first visit, except that the rosewood 
workbox w’as shut instead of open, and that there were no signs 
of any one having occupied the apartment that day. The two 
children waited for several minutes before any one came to 
them. The house seemed perfectly empty, and they could hear 
nothing but the ticking of the handsome, old clock, which was 
placed in a recess in the ante-room. Madeline began to think 
that what Ruth had once said was true, and that it would be 
very difficult to play at the Manor. Presently, the quick shutting 
of a door told them that some one was approaching ; then a 
sharp voice called out to Miss Alice, ^ to put her books up ; ’ 
and directly afterwards, a heavy footstep sounded along the 
passage ; and when the drawing-room door opened, there 
appeared, not Lady Catharine, but her maid Marsham, a prim, 
plain-looking woman about forty years of age. 

Now Marsham was in reality as excellent a person as Lady 
Catharine, k>ut she was yet more severe in her manner ; and 
when she smiled at the two little girls, and told them to follow 
her, it was with a sort of grim good-nature, which showed that 
she was not in the habit of smiling upon every one. ‘ Lady 
Catharine is gone out, young ladies,’ she said, as she walked 
with a solemn step up the great staircase, ‘ but she hopes you 
and Miss Alice will play together till she comes back ; and you 
are to drink tea at six o’clock. Perhaps you had better take 


38 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


your bonnets off before you go into the study/ The study 
sounded rather awful, for Madeline and Ruth always called their 
room the school-room ; and Ruth, who had wished to go into 
the garden, felt disappointed. They passed along an open 
gallery, from which they could look down into the hall below, 
and were just going into a bedroom, when an opposite door 
opened, and Alice’s bright face peeped out. Marsham turned 
quickly round : ‘ Miss Alice, you’ll be pleased to put that room 
tidy ; ’ and the door was immediately shut. Ruth could not 
help wondering at Alice’s obedience, when she remembered how 
she used to have her own way with Benson ; but as she watched 
Marsham’s manner, she was obliged to own that it would 
require a good deal of boldness to neglect anything which such 
a person ordered. When the children were ready, Marsham 
opened a different door from that by which they had entered, 
and showed them into another apartment, 'much smaller, and 
without any bed in it, and fitted up so prettily and comfortably, 
that they both longed to stop and examine everything atten- 
tively ; but Marsham carelessly said, ‘ Miss Lennox’s dressing- 
room,’ and then, passing along, led them into the study. It 
was of a moderate size, lighted by two large sash windows with 
deep window-seats. The walls were panelled, and ornamented 
by a few pictures of scenes from English history. A map of 
Europe hung over the fire-place, and a pair of globes stood in 
two of the corners. In the middle was a round table covered 
with a green cloth, upon which were placed a large, bronze ink- 
stand, a writing-desk, and some copy-books ; and at the lower 
end was an old-fashioned, carved, mahogany book-case — the 
upper shelves filled by neatly arranged well-bound volumes, and 
the lower given up for Alice’s school-books, which were at that 
instant in anything but proper order. A few handsome chairs, 
and one with a remarkably straight high back ; a walnut-tree 
cabinet, with open brass wire doors, lined with green silk ; a' 
large clock, and a faded Turkey carpet, completed the furniture 
of the room. Ruth felt that it was a study, and was more 
certain than ever that no one could play or be merry at the 
Manor. Alice, however, did not appear to be of the same 
opinion ; she was seated on the floor by the book-case when 
they came in, her lap filled with books, and a heap lying on 
the ground beside her ; but all were thrown down as Madeline 
and Ruth appeared, and her smile and welcome were very like 
what they had been when she lived at the white house. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


39 


‘Now don^t get into mischief, that’s all,’ said Marsham ; 
‘ mind. Miss Alice, you don’t go down-stairs.’ Alice said ‘ very 
well,’ in a humble tone, and Marsham went away. 

‘ We can go to play when I have put the books up,’ said 
Alice, turning again to her employment ; ‘ won’t you help me ? ’ 

‘ What a number ! ’ exclaimed Madeline, as she knelt down 
to be near the lower shelf ; ‘ you don’t learn out of them all, 
do you ? ’ 

‘ No,’ replied Alice, laughing ; ‘ but I am to do it by and by. 
Lady Catharine says, and such a heap of lessons I have now 
every day — more a great deal than you.’ 

‘ It is so strange,’ said Ruth, who stood by, thinking ; ‘ you 
don’t seem to mind it, Alice.’ 

‘ Yes, but I do, I hate it sometimes ; but it is all regular, and 
I think I like that ; and Lady Catharine says I get on, and she 
looks pleased. I don’t want to talk about lessons now, though ; 
just give me those French books, Madeline, and then we shall 
have done ; and you shall come and see my dressing-room.’ 
The books were soon arranged, but not carelessly, as would 
have been the case some months before. Alice took pains that 
every one should be in its proper place, and even brought a 
duster from a drawer to wipe one which required it ; and at last, 
after casting a satisfied glance at the result of her labours, 
opened the door into the dressing-room. ‘ It is all my own,’ 
she said, as she pointed to the neat book- shelves, and the china 
inkstand, and the pretty little cabinet in which her special 
treasures were kept ; ‘ for you know,’ she added with some 
hesitation, ‘ I am like Lady Catharine’s daughter now, so it is 
fit I should have such things.’ 

‘ N o,’ said Ruth, rather abmptly, ‘ you are not like Lady 
Catharine’s daughter, and papa says you never can be.’ 

‘Why not.? ’ inquired Alice, quickly; ‘ who is to prevent me.?’ 

‘ But you can’t be — it is impossible,’ persisted Ruth ; ‘ you 
can never have the same relations.’ 

‘ Oh ! as to that,’ replied Alice, ‘ I don’t want them. Lady 
Catharine says I am her child, and I shall have all sorts of fine 
things when I grow up ; I shall be much richer than you.’ 

‘ I would not change with you,’ said Ruth; but Madeline said 
nothing. 

Alice felt a little provoked at Ruth’s indifference. ‘ Look 
here,’ she said, opening some drawers ; ‘ these are all my clothes 
• — frocks, and capes, and ribbons ; don’t they look pretty ? ’ 


40 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


* Yes, very,’ said Ruth, quietly ; ‘ but, Alice, papa told me 
that wearing fine dresses had something to do with pomps and 
vanities ; and that it was wrong. He said so one evening when 
I asked him what pomps and vanities meant.’ 

‘ No, but indeed, Ruth, it can’t be wrong,’ said Madeline ; 
‘ because we have our best frocks on now.’ 

‘ I forget,’ answered Ruth, looking a little puzzled ; ^ but I 
know he did say something about it.’ 

‘ Never mind ! ’ exclaimed Alice ; ‘ what does it signify?’ 

‘ It does signify,’ continued Ruth ; ‘ because I don’t like for- 
getting.’ Alice seemed rather surprised ; and, turning away, 
called Madeline to come and admire her beautiful sashes ; and 
she spread them out upon the table, whilst Ruth stood apart by 
the window. ‘ I have it ! ’ exclaimed Ruth, at length : ‘ he said 
that it was not naughty to like what we have if it was grand or 
pretty, but that we ought not to feel proud about it, and think 
ourselves better than others ; and he wouldn’t like you, Alice, 
to talk about being richer than us.’ 

‘ I can’t help it,’ said Alice, ‘ if it is true.’ 

‘ But you boasted,’ said Ruth. 

‘ ‘ And you would like to be rich, I know ; so there is not 
much difference.’ 

Ruth coloured, and was going to reply, when Madeline ex- 
claimed — ‘ Papa scolded one of the girls at the school the other 
day, about pomps and vanities ; don’t you remember, Ruth?’ 

‘ Hester Morris, wasn’t it ?’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; do you know, Alice, she spent all her money in buying 
a new ribbon, when her father and mother had no meat for 
dinner.’ 

‘ That was wrong, certainly,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yes ; and papa talked to us a great deal besides ; it was 
one evening when we went down to the shore ; but I forget it 
all now.’ 

‘ I remember what he said,’ continued Ruth : ‘ he told us we 
ought not to wish for anything more than we have ; and that 
we ought to be quite willing to be poor ; and not to want to 
have fine names, and to have people thinking a great deal about 
us ; so, Alice, you will be very wrong indeed if you care about 
those things when you grow up.’ 

* And he said that sinful lusts of the flesh meant greediness 
for us,’ added Madeline. 

‘ Well !’ exclaimed Alice, growing impatient at having what 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


41 


slie considered a lecture, ^ I can’t be greedy ; Lady Catharine 
won’t let me have anything except at dinner-time — I mean 
lorenges and sweet things, as Benson did.’ 

‘ I thought you said, last time we were here, that she gave 
you some sugar-plums,’ observed Ruth. 

‘ Oh yes ! just that once ; but she has never done it since.’ 

‘ Then you are not as well off as we are,’ said Madeline, 
opening a black silk bag which hung on her arm : ‘ see here ! 
they are bonbons — real French bonbons, which our aunt Wilson 
sent us ; and we thought you would like some.’ 

‘ Oh, what beauties !’ exclaimed Alice ; and her eyes sparkled 
with delight : ‘all silver, and gold, and pink, and blue, and green 
I never saw any so pretty.’ 

‘ Madeline and I are going to keep some of ours to look at,’ 
said Ruth : ‘ it seems a pity to tear them.’ 

‘ I don’t see that,’ replied Alice ; ‘ they are made to be 
eaten. This blue one is chocolate, I am sure : don’t you both 
like chocolate very much 

‘ No, not very much,’ answered Madeline ; ‘ I don’t, at least. 
All those I have put by are chocolate, I think.’ 

‘ Dear me ! then you don’t care for them. I wish you would 
let me have them ; and I am so much obliged to you for these.’ 

Alice immediately began eating the bonbons ; and Ruth was 
uncomfortable, fearing they might have done wrong in giving 
them. ‘ I thought Lady Catharine did not like you to have 
sugar-plums and things,’ she said. 

‘ Oh, that is all nonsense ! they never do me any harm ; and 
Benson bought me heaps : besides, these are different — they 
are bonbons ; so do, Madeline, dear, give me the others.’ 
Madeline pretended not to hear, for she was not inclined to 
sacrifice her treasures ; she thought them as valuable to be 
looked at, as Alice did to be eaten ; and in an awkward 
manner she began turning over the coloured sashes. Alice, 
however, was not to be easily diverted from her wishes ; the 
more bonbons she had, the more she wanted ; and after again 
warmly expressing her thanks for the present she had received, 
she once more returned to the charge : ‘You know, Madeline, 
I don’t want to do anything you dislike ; but if you are not 
fond of chocolate, they can be no good to you.’ 

‘ Yes, but they can be,’ persisted Madeline, ‘ if it is itiy 
pleasure to look at them.’ 

‘Besides, Alice,’ interrupted Ruth, ‘you know Lady Catharing 
would not like it.’ 


42 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


‘And it is being greedy/ said Madeline, delighted to find 
support from her sister ; ‘ and if papa were here, he would talk 
to you a great deal about not being greedy.’ 

Alice looked angry. ‘No, it ’s not being greedy ! ’ she said : 

‘ I don’t want to take them from you, if you can eat them your- 
self ; but you don’t care for them.’ 

‘ But it is being greedy,’ said Ruth ; ‘ because if you did not 
think so much about sweet things, you would not ask so often. 
You know, Alice, how you used to tease Benson to buy you 
lemon drops whenever she went out.’ 

‘ Well ! ’ exclaimed Alice ; ‘ I remember who . used to eat 
them when they were bought.’ 

‘ I did,’ replied Ruth ; ‘ but I would not have done it if 
mamma had wished me not ; and you don’t think anything 
about Lady Catharine.’ 

Alice felt from experience that there was nothing to be gained 
by arguing with Ruth, who generally contrived to see the right 
and the wrong of every case clearly, and when she did see it, 
never gave up. Madeline was a more persuadable person ; and 
Alice did not in the least lose the hope of obtaining her wishes, 
though she continued silent after Ruth’s last speech ; and gather- 
ing up the bonbons from the table, put them into a drawer of 
the cabinet, and went on displaying her sashes. ‘ You never 
saw all these before,’ she said : ‘ Benson used to keep them. 
I never did till the other day ; but are they not beautiful ? ’ 
They certainly were very handsome : bright green, and purple, 
and pink, and figured satin, and white with coloured roses — . 
such an assemblage as had never been seen by the two children 
except in a draper’s shop at Cottington. ‘ They belonged to 
an aunt of mine ; — all but this one,’ said Alice ; and she held 
up a very pretty green ribbon with white spots ; ‘ that was 
given ’me yesterday.’ 

‘Yesterday!’ exclaimed both the children, in surprise: ‘how 
very kind of Lady Catharine ! ’ 

‘ It was not Lady Catharine,’ said Alice, with a peculiar 
smile ; and then she added, gravely, ‘ you know it is no exact 
good to me now.’ 

‘ Then it must have been Marsham,’ observed Madeline ; 
‘ but she does not look good-natured.’ 

‘No, nor Marsham; but never mind; somebody gave me 
this ribbon, and I think it is beautiful.’ 

‘ Oh ! but Alice, do tell us ; we won’t say anything about it,’ 
said Madeline, with her usual thoughtlessness. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


43 


* No, no ! ^ exclaimed Alice, shaking her head, and delighted 
at a little mystery; ‘I shan’t tell you anything; so there will be 
no use in your guessing.’ 

‘ Besides,’ observed Ruth, ‘ I don’t like to promise that I 
won’t say anything ; and I don’t think you ought to do it, 
Madeline.’ 

‘ Well,’ said Madeline, recollecting herself, * I suppose I 
must not promise not to tell ; but I should like to know for ail 
that.’ 

Alice held the ribbon up to show it off to the best advantage, 
and Madeline again began guessing, when Marsham came in 
hastily to say that Lady Catharine desired to speak with Miss 
Lennox. The ribbon was thrown down, and Alice was gone 
in an instant. Ruth took up a book, but Madeline could not 
withdraw her eyes from the beautiful ribbon. The taste for 
finery was a folly which her mamma had early discovered in her, 
and often desired to correct ; but she was always dressed plainly, 
and she had, therefore, no great opportunity of displaying it. 
Now that there was no one to caution her, she gave way to it ; 
and passing the ribbon round her waist, and holding it together 
that it might not be crumpled, she called to Ruth to admire it, 
and observe how well it suited with her white frock. 

*• You will spoil it,’ said Ruth, scarcely raising her eyes. 

‘ Oh no, I shall not, it would be impossible ; I am not 
tying it. Just see, Ruth, only once.’ 

< Yes, well, very pretty,’ replied Ruth, looking up again. 
Madeline went to the glass, and stood before it at a little dis- 
tance that she might see herself plainly. ‘ If Alice is greedy, I 
know some one else who likes fine clothes,’ said Ruth. 

* Not clothes,’ answered Madeline ; ‘ it is only a ribbon.’ 

‘ That is just the same, papa said so ; and he told you that 
mamma often talked to him about it, and that it was as bad in 
us to love to dress ourselves out, as it was in the girls at the 
school.’ 

Madeline felt a little ashamed, but still persisted that as the 
ribbon was not her own, there could be no harm in liking to 
see herself in it ; and Ruth, having given her opinion, again 
returned to her book. Madeline continued to amuse herself 
with the sashes, putting them round her, one after the other, 
but finding none which she thought at all equal to her first 
favourite. ‘How I should like to have just such a one ! ’ she 
exclaimed at length, her admiration having increased to a long- 


44 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


ing desire to possess the prize, especially as it suited so well 

with her white frock. ‘ I wonder whether Alice would give ’ 

The sentence was interrupted, for Madeline caught the sound of 
footsteps; and feeling that she was indulging a foolish wish, she 
threw the ribbon aside. Lady Catharine entered directly after- 
wards, and Alice with her. She kissed the two children almost 
affectionately, and said she hoped they had managed to enter- 
tain themselves pretty well ; but on glancing round the room, 
and observing the display of Alice’s finery, she grew stern again, 
and desiring that all that nonsense might be put away, she told 
Madeline and Ruth to fetch their bonnets and capes, for they 
were to go into the garden, and drink tea in the summer-house. 
Madeline cast a wistful look at the green sash as Alice began 
folding it up, and offered to remain behind and help her ; but 
Lady Catharine waved her hand, and pointed to the door, and 
Ruth whispered to her to be quick ; Alice, too, gave a sign not 
to speak, and Madeline felt she must be careful not even to ap- 
pear to disobey. 

What had passed was but a trifle, and in itself seemed of very 
little consequence. Madeline knew that the mere admiring a 
pretty ribbon could be no harm, and she did not think that any 
one could find fault with her for merely putting it on, and wish- 
ing she had one like it ; but she did not remember that a love 
of finery was one of her great faults, and that her mamma had 
often told her to try and not think about her dress at all, lest 
she should grow up to be silly and conceited, and should forget 
the promise of her baptism to renounce the pomps and vanities 
of the world. Madeline was thoughtless about everything — • 
especially her faults ; she never saw what she was doing till she 
had committed some serious offence, and the consequence was 
that she made but little improvement ; for to be watchful over 
trifles is the only sure way of advancing in goodness. Alice, 
beii'g very quick in all her movements, joined Ruth and Made- 
line before they, had reached the bottom of the stairs. Lady 
Catharine’s presence made them all feel shy, but Ruth remarked 
that Alice did not walk away from her, but kept close to her 
side ; and when some question was asked as to what lessons 
had been done, and Alice gave a good account of her day’s 
work. Lady Catharine’s face looked quite gentle, and her smile 
was so sweet, that Ruth for the first time thought it might be 
possible to love her. 

The table in the summer-house was spread for tea, with 


LANETON PARSONAGIl. 


45 


bread and butter, and cakes and fruit ; and to tlie children’s 
great pleasure, there were the small brown cups and saucers, 
and plates with gilt edges, which they had been in the habit of 
playing with at the white house. None of them had believed 
it possible that Lady Catharine should think of such trifles ; and 
when, after seeing them comfortably seated, she left them 
to themselves, they were loud in their exclamations of sur- 
prise and delight. Madeline declared that it was not at all 
like Lady Catharine, and she was sure some one else must 
have begged for them ; but Alice said that Lady Catharine 
often remembered kind things, and Marsham had said one 
day that she never forgot a poor person in her life. Ruth, 
as being the steadiest, was fixed upon to pour out the tea, 
and the little party went on very comfortably ; the principal 
amusement being Alice’s description of what had happened 
since she came to the Manor. Sometimes, indeed, Alice’s manner 
altered, and tears were in her eyes, if anything which was said 
brought back a particular remembrance of her dear mamma ; 
but she was much more reconciled to her new life than she had 
been at Mrs Clifford’s first visit, and did not protest, as she had 
done before, that she never should like living at the Manor. 

The heat of the afternoon had by this time gone off, and 
when the tea was over, Alice proposed that they should play 
hide and seek. There were capital places in the garden, she 
said, and they might go into one or two of the back courts if 
they liked it ; ‘ not into the farthest one though,’ she added, 
pointing to a wall adjoining the outhouses : ‘ there is a way 
up there into the strange rooms, and so it ’s forbidden.’ 

‘ Oh ! how I wish it was not ! ’ exclaimed Madeline ; ‘ it 
would be such fun to go ; there must be something wonderful 
there.’ 

‘ No, there is not,’ replied Alice. ‘ I asked Marsham about 
them once ; and she said they were the rooms which Lady 
Catharine had a great many years ago, when Mr Hyde, her 
husband, you know, was alive ; and that his bedroom and 
study were there, and that makes her so particular, because she 
wants to keep everything just as it used to be, and she thinks 
that if every one was allowed to go there, they would be put 
out of order ; so Marsham goes in and dusts it all herself. I 
would ask her to take me with her, if Lady Catharine had not 
made such a fuss, and declared she would send me to school if 
I ever did.’ Ruth looked at the windows, notwithstanding this 


46 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


acc(3unt, with a great deal of interest ; and felt that she would 
rather have seen those few shut up rooms than any others in 
the house ; but there was no good to be gained by wishing, and 
the game began. It was a long and a merry one. Behind old 
yew hedges, and large trees, and projecting walls, and half-open 
doors, the children hid, in the certainty that no one would 
dream of finding them there ; and, unmindful of Lady Catharine, 
or Marsham, or the dull garden, they made the air ring with 
their shouts of joyous laughter as loudly as if they had been 
playing in the shrubbery at the Parsonage. 

Alice was naturally the most successful in concealing herself ; 
she knew every turn and corner, for when left alone her chief 
amusement was to spy out all the odd places belonging to the 
house ; and, at length, after the game had continued for about 
twenty minutes, she was declared by her little companions to be 
quite lost. They had looked everywhere, and called, and even 
entreated that she would show herself, but no answer had been 
returned. 

^ She is gone into the house,’ said Ruth ; ‘ and that is so 
foolish when it was against our rule.’ 

‘ Yes,’ said Madeline, * and if we had done it she would have 
been very angry.’ 

‘ I don’t think she can be, either,’ continued Ruth, after a 
little thought : ‘ she said to me again that we were not to do it 
just before she ran away.’ 

‘ That might have been for fun, to deceive us,’ replied Made- 
line ; ‘ you know Alice will do such things sometimes.’ 

As she said this Madeline turned down a long walk leading 
to the door of the forbidden court, and when she reached the 
bottom, she leaned against the wall to rest herself, feeling tired 
with play, and vexed with Alice ; whilst Ruth, determining to 
make another search, walked away in a different direction. 
Madeline began calling again for Alice, and when she stopped, 
the sound of voices in the court was plainly heard. Some per- 
sons were talking together, and Madeline fancied that one of 
them was Alice. The tone seemed the same, though she did 
not hear what passed. Once more she repeated her name, and 
a moment afterwards a door was shut hastily, and Alice, steal- 
ing round the corner of the wall, stood by her side, laughing 
heartily. Madeline was eager in her questions as to what she 
had been doing, and where she had been hiding ; but Alice 
would give no account of herself, and only insisted on their 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


47 


joining Ruth. Madeline agreed ; but as she turned round to 
pick up her handkerchief, which had fallen down, she was sur- 
prised to see the door of the servants’ court open, and a woman 
dressed in mourning, and looking extremely like Benson, ap- 
pear, who, after spying about, walked quickly towards a door 
in the garden wall which adjoined the park. 

‘ It is Benson, I am sure,’ exclaimed Madeline, and she was 
going to run after her, when Alice pulled her back. 

* No, no, nonsense, never mind,’ she exclaimed, colouring 
deeply ; ‘ let us find Ruth.’ 

‘ But it looked just like her ; I am sure it must be her ; do 
let me go and speak.’ 

^ How foolish ! ’ exclaimed Alice ; ^ she is gone now — see.’ 
The garden door was closed, and the woman, whoever she 
might be, was gone. Madeline persisted that it was Benson, 
and Alice laughed, and again called it nonsense ; and Madeline, 
whose attention was soon drawn away from any subject, re- 
turned once more, though, without success, to the question of 
Alice’s hiding-place. They found Ruth in the summer-house; 
she had given Alice up, and began to complain that she had 
broken the rules of the game. Alice, however, persisted that 
she had not, for she had not been in the house. 

* Then you were talking to Benson in the servants’ court,’ 
said Madeline, ‘ and that was against the rules, for you told us 
we must not go there.’ 

Alice blushed again, but before she could answer, Ruth ex- 
claimed, ‘ Benson I is she come back ? and may you see her, 
Alice ?’ 

Alice looked still more uncomfoi table, and in an awkward 
manner said, ‘ Benson was to have stayed in London a month.’ 

‘ But she did not,’ observed Madeline ; ^ I am sure it was 
Benson who went through the garden, and I know I heard your 
voice, Alice, in the court.’ 

^ Listening ! listening ! for shame !’ exclaimed Alice, the 
crimson in her cheeks spreading itself over her forehead and neck. 

^ It was not listening,’ replied Madeline, angrily ; ‘ I could 
not help myself.’ 

‘ Well, it is of no consequence,’ said Alice ; Ht is no one’s 
business but my own, and we won’t talk any more about it. I 
want you to tell me, Madeline, where you got your bonbons.’ 

‘ Why, what good can it do you ? ’ asked Ruth, who was 
struck by the awkwardness of Alice’s manner. 


48 


LA TON PARSONAGE. 


‘ You can’t have any like them, because they came from 
France,’ said Madeline. 

Alice looked disappointed. ‘Are you sure?’ she said. 

‘ Yes, quite ; and I know there are none to be had here, 
nor at Cottington ; for mamma tried the last time we were 
there.’ 

This seemed to settle the question, for the shops at Cottington 
contained, in the children’s belief, all that was most wonderful 
and beautiful in the world. Alice showed her vexation in her 
countenance, and instead of proposing another game, sat down, 
and began pulling off the leaves of the evergreen-honeysuckles 
ivhich twined round the summer-house, ‘ There is no use 
ii staying here, if you are so stupid,’ said Ruth, after proposing 
several plays, all of which were disliked ; ‘ I shall go and feed 
Marsham’s rabbits ; ’ and she walked away. 

Madeline was going to follow, but Alice pulled her back. 

‘ Stop, Madeline,’ she said ; ‘ why won’t you give me the bon- 
bons ?’ Poor Madeline felt a little surprise, for she had for- 
gotten that any claim had been made upon her. ‘ It is very 
ill-natured of you,’ continued Alice ; ‘ you can’t eat them your- 
self, and you won’t let any one else have them ; and I would 
give you anything you like in exchange.’ 

‘Anything!’ exclaimed Madeline, who had a notion that 
since Alice had been adopted by Lady Catharine Hyde, she 
must of course possess many more beautiful things than she had 
done before. 

‘ Yes, anything,’ repeated Alice; ‘I will tell you what I would 
give you, if you liked; one of the sashes — one of those beauti- 
ful sashes you saw in my dressing-room.’ 

‘Would you, indeed?’ and the remembrance of the green 
ribbon with the white spots came clearly before Madeline's 
mind ; ‘ but you would not be allowed.’ 

‘ Oh, yes I trust me ; I may do just as I like in those things ; 
let me have the bonbons, and you shall have the sash.’ 

The temptation was great, for Madeline had never during her 
whole life possessed anything so handsome. ‘ I should like it 
very much,’ she said, ‘ but then ’ 

‘ Well, what ? make haste — why don’t you say yes ?’ 

‘ It would be no good,’ said Madeline, sorrowfully; ‘ mamma 
would not let me wear it ; she likes Ruth and me always to be 
dressed alike.’ This was rather a difficulty ; but Alice, having 
once made the proposal to exchange something for the bonbons, 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


49 


was not daunted, and began to recount her list of valuables, in 
hopes that Madeline would find something else which would do 
as well. But it was in vain. Madeline cared neither for wafer- 
boxes, nor coloured sealing-wax, nor mother-of-pearl winders, 
nor transparent slates ; she wished only for the ribbon, and if 
she did not have that, she did not want anything. ‘ It is the 
green sash I should like,’ she said ; ‘ that is the prettiest of 
them all.’ 

Alice’s face brightened, as if a happy thought had struck her. 

‘ Well,’ she said, ‘ I don’t know, perhaps it might be managed; 
would you really give me the bonbons, if I were to give you 
and Ruth a sash alike ?’ 

Madeline, surprised at the offer, considered for a few mo- 
ments, and then said, ‘ Yes,’ though not without a little feeling 
of reluctance ; adding, ‘ you may let me take them home, and 
then I will ask mamma to send Smith, the gardener, with the 
bonbons to-morrow.’ 

‘No, no, indeed !’ exclaimed Alice, ‘that will never do; 
Lady Catharine might know about it then.’ 

To Madeline this sounded as a reason for not having them 
at all ; but Alice was not thoroughly sincere, and when self- 
indulgence came in her way, she was unable to overcome the 
temptation of gratifying it, even at the risk of doing wrong. 
Madeline’s scruples were therefore laughed at, and she was told 
that it would be necessary to keep the bonbons till they met 
again, for that it would not be safe to send them ; that, in fact, 
it would be as well not to say anything about them.’ 

‘ But I must to mamma,’ replied Madeline ; ‘ I shall show 
her the sashes to-night, and she will ask directly how I came 
by them.’ 

At this difficulty Alice began to laugh, and exclaimed, ‘ But 
you don’t expect to carry back the sashes with you to-night, do 
you why, I have not got them yet.’ 

‘ Not got them?’ repeated Madeline, "with a blank face of 
disappointment, ‘ I thought you said you would gave us each 
one alike.’ 

‘ So I did ; but the other must be bought first.’ 

Madeline was puzzled. She knew that Alice was scarcely 
ever allowed to go beyond the park — ^never, indeed, unless Lady 
Catharine was with her ; and how it would be possible to pro- 
cure another ribbon, equally beautiful with the one she has just 
seen, in any place but Cottington, was a mystery which she was 

D 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


SO 

unable to comprehend. Madeline did not know that the green 
ribbon had been a present from Benson, who had brought it 
from London only the day before; and, without Lady Catharine’s 
knowledge, had managed to see Alice and give it into her own 
hands. Benson had been careful to keep this fact secret, for 
she knew that Lady Catharine was aware of her great fault — 
her love of gossiping and repeating strange stories, and was 
determined not to allow Alice to see anything more of her. 
She had, moreover, offended Lady Catharine very much, by 
being impertinent to her when she was first informed that Alice 
Avas to be taken from her care ; and, in consequence, she had 
been forbidden ever to come near the house. 

Benson was a foolish woman, and did many wrong things ; 
but she was really fond of Alice, and it cut her to the heart to 
be told she was to leave her. Having a sister living in Lane- 
ton, a dressmaker, she resolved to settle with her, and take part 
of her business ; and accordingly, after a journey to London to 
see some relations, she had returned only two days before the 
visit of Ruth and Madeline to the Manor, bringing with her the 
gay ribbon which they had so much admired. Alice was proud 
of finery, and pleased with the sash, but she knew she should 
not be able to wear it for some time ; and even if she could do 
so, she liked something to eat much better than something to 
wear. The love of eating was as strong in her as the love of 
dress was in Madeline ; and she had that afternoon been trying 
to persuade Benson, whom she met whilst she was seeking for 
a good hiding-place, to bring some bonbons with her the next 
time she came. Benson knew nothing about bonbons, or how 
dear they were ; and fancying it would be only the expense of 
a few halfpence, agreed to buy some in the village ; but she 
told Alice that she could not undertake to bring them up to the 
house to her, because it was only for those two days, whilst the 
upper housemaid was away, and the under housemaid, who was 
her cousin, was able to keep watch for her, that she had been 
able to come, contrary to Lady Catharine’s order. If Alice 
wanted to see her again, they must meet at the garden gate, 
which opened into the park. Alice had agreed to this, without 
once considering what a very wrong thing she was doing ; she 
remembered neither Lady Catharine’s commands, nor the great 
sinfulness of deceit, nor anything but her own wishes. For 
the sake of the bonbons, for the pleasure of indulging her taste 
for eating, she was willing to displease not only a human being, 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


51 


v.’ho had adopted her when she was a friendless orphan, but 
One infinitely greater and kinder, the all-seeing God, who 
hates deceit, and from whom no thought or action can be con- 
cealed. Madeline saw that something was wrong, and she 
knew that Alice was going to disobey Lady Catharine ; but 
though her conscience whispered that it would be better to give 
up all thought of the sashes, and that even if she had them her 
mamma might not like them to be worn ; and that, at any rate, 
she was indulging the love of finery, which she had been 
warned against, still she allowed herself to hesitate, and think, 
and wish ; and the consequence was what might easily be 
imagined — she agreed to give Alice the bonbons when next 
they met, and to receive the two sashes in return. She half 
repented, indeed, when Alice told her that she must not say 
anything to Ruth ; for she had never kept anything secret from 
her before-; but the idea of surprising her in some degree made 
up for the restraint she was obliged to put upon herself ; and 
though unable to find out from Alice how the ribbon was to 
be procured, she persisted in her resolution ; and when the 
three children were summoned into the house by Marsham, no 
one would have supposed, from their merry voices and light 
steps, that two of them had determined upon doing what they 
knew to be wrong. Whilst we think only upon indulging our 
own wishes, our consciences are often silent ; it is only when 
we have gained our point that we begin to see how sinfully 
Ave have acted. If Alice and Madeline had been reminded of 
their baptismal vow, and asked whether they had broken it by 
gratifying their desires for the pomps and vanities of the world, 
and the sinful lusts of the flesh, they would most probably have 
answered ‘ No.^ They might even have supposed that it was 
only grown-up people who could ever be tempted to be guilty 
of such sins ; but this is not the way in which God judges. He 
sees the working of our evil hearts in our slightest actions, and 
the faults of children are in His eyes very grievous, because 
He knows that they proceed from the deep corruption of their 
nature ; and that if they are not checked, they will assuredly 
end in great offences. Alice and Madeline knew all this — that 
is, they had been taught it, but they did not think about it. 
They played, laughed, looked at pictures, and told stories, and 
enjoyed the dish of raspberries and milk which Lady Catharine 
provided for them in the study, without any misgiving ; and it 
was only when, an hour afterwards, they knelt down, each in 


52 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


her separate chamber, to offer their evening prayers, that any- 
thing like a doubt crossed their minds as to whether God was 
indeed well pleased with them. Alice thought of it, but the 
thought was disagreeable, and she turned away from it ; and, 
as soon as the words were repeated, hurried into bed, that she 
might forget it. But Madeline’s conscience was more tender ; 
her mamma had taught her to try and recollect the principal 
naughty things which she had done during the day, and to 
mention them in her prayers at night, and the agreement with 
Alice immediately struck her as one ; but then if it was wrong 
it ought to be given up — she ought to refuse to take the sashes, 
or to give Alice the bonbons ; but she had promised, and Alice 
would think it unkind ; it seemed to her difficult to know how 
to decide, and in the middle of her prayers she stopped to con- 
sider. The servant looked into the room at the time to see if 
she was in bed, and Madeline thought it would not do to deter- 
mine then ; so she finished her prayers with an unhappy mind, 
and instead of lying down in peace, end falling asleep im- 
mediately, she tossed about restless and uncomfortable for more 
than a quarter of an hour, with all sorts of confused thoughts in 
her head, and with a consciousness that the right way of acting 
was clear, but that she had not strength to follow it. Why did 
not Madeline pray that God would help her ? 


CHAPTER VI. 



HERE are few children who have not at some time or other 


-L experienced the same feelings as Madeline when she 
awoke the next morning, with the dim consciousness that some- 
thing disagreeable had happened, or was going to happen — ■ 
that there was some cause why she should be less light-hearted 
than usual. The truth was easily recollected, but, unhappily, 
Madeline was less inclined to do her duty, and give up her 
wishes in the morning, when the sun was shining, and the birds 
were singing, and everything looked cheerful around her, than 
she had been in the dark night, when she lay in her bed, with 
nothing to distract her thoughts from the remembrance that she 
was in the presence of the great God, who knew all that was 
passing in her heart. Ruth saw that something was making 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


53 


her sister uncomfortable ; and fancying that it was because she 
was not ready with her lessons, she helped her to finish dress- 
ing, and promised to hear her repeat them when she went 
down-stairs ; and Madeline did not say that this was not the 
reason, though the day before she would have shrunk from the 
idea of hiding anything from Ruth. She only hurried over all 
she had to do, that she might not be asked any questions, and 
then knelt down to say her prayers, as usual ; but as it had 
been the night previous, so it was now. Madeline was afraid 
to use holy words, and ask God to keep her from sin, when she 
was resolving to commit it ; she knew well that this would only 
be a mockery. There was a great difficulty in her mind, and a 
long struggle between her conscience, which told her what she 
ought to do, and her inclination, which told her what she ought 
not. Still she did not pray to be enabled to act rightly ; she 
tried to decide by herself ; and the consequence was, as it al- 
ways must be, that she went wrong. She put off determining the 
question till another occasion, because she said to herself that 
it was not necessary to settle then ; there would be no chance of 
her meeting Alice that day, so she would not be obliged to give 
her the bonbons, and she would think about it again, when she 
had more time ; perhaps it would be as well to have nothing to 
do with the matter, but she would see ; and having thus quieted 
her conscience, Madeline said her prayers in haste, making, at 
the same time, the excuse for herself that she was late. This 
was but a bad beginning of the day, for when we are careless 
and inattentive to God we may be quite sure that we shall not 
be able to do well in other respects ; and before breakfast was 
ready, Madeline had spoken several hasty words to Ruth, be- 
sides wasting her time, and failing to have one lesson as perfect 
as it ought to be. 

Mrs Clifford, who soon found out if anything was amiss, 
would probably have made some remark upon her little girPs 
manner, which was far from being as cheerful as usual, if her 
attention had not been occupied by a letter which had arrived 
by the post, and the interest of which prevented her from paying 
her usual attention to what was going on. She read it twice 
through, though it was rather a long one, and then gave it to 
her husband ; and, when he had ended it, they began talking 
of the contents. The two children, however, could not at all 
understand what was meant. They heard something about 
their aunt Mary and their grandmamma, and a marriage which 


54 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


was to take place soon ; but who was to be married, or what 
their aunt Mary and their grandmamma had to do with the 
matter, they could not make out. It was clear, however, that 
the business of the letter was important ; for, directly after 
breakfast, Mrs Clifford called the children to her, and, after set- 
ting them some writing copies, told them they were to go on by 
themselves, for that she should not be able to attend to them for 
the next hour ; and soon afterwards they saw her walking in 
the garden with their papa, and talking to him earnestly. 
Madeline felt glad in the hope that she should not be called so 
soon as usual to repeat her imperfect lesson ; and, as it hap- 
pened, Mrs Clifford was detained until she had had time to 
look over her French and geography, and to find out some 
places in the map which she had read of the day before ; no 
fault, therefore, was found, and her mamma even praised her. 
But Madeline was not happy at being praised ; she knew that 
she did not deserve it. The dinner hour arrived, and still there 
had been no opportunity for thinking ; and in the afternoon Mr 
Clifford took both the children for a walk with him ; and they 
came in only in time for tea, and afterwards went out again 
upon the shore, where they stayed so long that it was very 
nearly their bed-time before they returned. Madeline’s mind 
had been quite occupied, and she had almost forgotten her en- 
gagement with Alice ; and the pain she had felt the night before 
was nearly gone. Yet Madeline was not better because she 
was happier ; her happiness was caused by forgetfulness ; but 
God never forgets. To Ruth the day had been an unpleasant 
one, though she had not the same causes for self-reproach as 
Madeline. She was uncomfortable ; not about herself, but 
about her papa and mamma, who, she could plainly see, had 
something in their thoughts which distressed them. Mrs 
Clifford stayed at home all the afternoon, writing a long letter ; 
and once, on going into the room, Ruth remarked that tears 
were in her eyes, though she tried to hide them ; and directly 
afterwards Mrs Clifford called her little girl to her, and kissed 
her so often, and gazed upon her so sadly, that Ruth longed to 
ask what was the matter. Her papa, too, was not at all like 
himself when he took them for their walk. He was silent, and 
looked very grave ; and sighed when an old man, at whose cot- 
tage they stopped, observed what a pleasure it must be to him to 
have his little girls with him. Mr Clifford scarcely ever sighed; 
and Ruth was sure it must be something serious which could 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


55 


make him do so. What it was, however, she could not in the 
least find out, though she thought it must have something to do 
with the letter ; but when she began talking to Madeline her 
fears rather passed away, for Madeline laughed at her for worry- 
ing herself about it. Ruth went to bed that night with much 
more serious thoughts than Madeline ; and when she prayed, as 
she had been taught, that God would bless her papa and 
mamma, she really thought about the words, and used them from 
her heart, and then she felt relieved, for she knew that if any- 
thing disagreeable was going to happen, God would be not only 
able but willing to help them to bear it. 

The two next days Ruth watched anxiously when the post 
came, but it did not bring any letters of consequence, and the 
cheerfulness of her papa and mamma began to make her think 
she must have been fanciful. On the third day they were 
rather earlier at breakfast than usual, and the children were sent 
into the school-room before the post came in ; and as they were 
leaving the breakfast parlour, Mrs Clifford said, she hoped they 
would be careful at their lessons, for she had some intention ot 
taking them out with her in the afternoon; perhaps they might 
go to the Manor. Madeline’s countenance changed, and she 
ran quickly out of the room. It seemed certain at first that 
she must decide at once ; for Alice would expect the bonbons, 
ind had no doubt procured the sasheS. It did not seem 
possible to draw back ; but Madeline could not make up her 
mind to fulfil her agreement, and again she put off the 
evil hour. It was the time for their writing, and she knew 
her mamma would be displeased if she was not ready'; so 
she resolved not to settle positively to do wrong, but to 
take the bonbons in her bag, and then talk to Alice a little 
more upon the subject. If she did not determine to give them, 
she persuaded herself there could be no harm in carrying 
them with her. So Madeline reasoned ; and so a great many 
other persons reason. They cannot resolve to forsake what is 
wrong at once; and they put themselves in the way of tempta- 
tion, and then say they cannot help yielding to it. Madeline 
went to her writing, and took more pains than usual with it, 
and really fancied that she was trying to do right ; and when 
Ruth began looking at the door, and wondering why their 
mamma did not come, she reproved her, and said that she 
ought not to talk and look about her. Ruth, however, could 
not help feeling wonder, though after Madeline had spoken she 


5 ^ 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


did not express it ; and when, at last, Mrs Clifford came into 
the room, all her past fears about the letters and bad news re- 
turned. Mrs Clifford looked uncomfortable ; she sat quiet for 
some time without speaking ; and when she began to hear 
them repeat their lessons, it seemed to be a trouble to her, and 
not a pleasure as it usually was. She smiled, however, at the 
end, and told them they were good children, and that she hoped, 
as she had promised, to take them with her to the Manor in 
the afternoon. 

‘ I should like to know what is the matter,’ said Ruth, as 
they went to their rooms to prepare for dinner : ‘ didn’t you see 
to-day, Madeline, how very strange mamma looked .?’ 

‘ Once I did,’ replied Madeline, ‘ when I said something about 
having a new geography book next month. I almost thought 
she was going to cry ; but you know mamma never cries, and 
I am sure that could not have made her.’ 

‘No,’ said Ruth, laughing ; ‘but it was not only then; it 
was all the time she was hearing us.’ 

Madeline merely said ‘Was it.?’ Had it been any other 
time she would have asked a great many questions, and guessed 
all sorts of reasons ; but just then she was turning over her 
beautiful bonbons, and putting them into a bag that she might 
not be hurried after dinner. 

Mr Clifford did not come to luncheon, which was still another 
reason for Ruth’s thinking that something must be going wrong, 
or at any rate that something important was about to happen. 
She was sure he was not gone out, for she had caught a glimpse 
of him at his writing-table as she passed the study door. When 
they were dressed for their walk, Ruth observed the bag hang- 
ing on Madeline’s arm, and asked her why she was going to 
carry it, as they had nothing to take with them. Madeline did 
not know what to reply, but muttered something indistinctly. 
She did not wish to tell a story ; but having begun to do what 
she did not like to own, she was induced to say anything for 
an excuse ; and besides this she was obliged to crumple the 
bag up, though it was very pretty and easily spoiled, and put it 
in the pocket of her frock, in order that nothing more might be 
said about it. But the visit to the Manor was not to be paid 
that afternoon ; for at the park gate they met Lady Catharine 
driving in a little pony-carriage, and Alice with her. Lady 
Catharine was pleased to see Mrs Clifford, and telling the page 
to hold the ponies, she got out and walked with her up and 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


57 


down the straight piece of road in front of the park paling ; 
whilst the children, delighted at being left together, talked fast 
and merrily. Madeline hoped that Alice had forgotten the 
bonbons ; for, notwithstanding her wish to possess the ribbon 
in exchange, she had been too uncomfortable during the last few 
days not to feel glad to be out of the way of temptation. She 
did not, however, escape so easily. Ruth went to gather some 
wild flowers in the hedge ; and then Alice, catching hold of 
Madeline’s hand, exclaimed: ‘Well, where are the bonbons.^’ 

‘ I — I — do you really want them.?’ replied Madeline. 

‘ Yes, of course ; you don’t mean to draw back .? oh, how 
mean !’ Madeline blushed, half with anger, half with shame. 
‘ After all my trouble,’ continued Alice, ‘ seeing Benson and all 
• — for I was obliged to beg for another from her.’ 

‘ Then you have the sashes,’ said Madeline, whilst, notwith- 
standing her confusion, her eyes sparkled with delight and ex- 
pectation. 

‘ Not yet, but I shall have the other; Benson says so.’ 

‘Have you seen her again, then.?’ inquired Madeline. 

‘ Yes, once at that gate — the garden gate into the park. Do 
you know, Madeline, I did not half like it, because of Lady 
Catharine; but I had promised you, and so I was forced to do 
it.’ Poor IMadeline felt vexed when she recollected how foolish 
she had been in receiving such a promise ; and keeping to her 
resolution of reminding Alice that they were doing wrong in 
deceiving Lady Catharine, she now proposed that they should 
give up the notion altogether. To her surprise, Alice seemed 
at first a little inclined to listen ; for although she did not feel 
what Madeline did, when she knew that she was grieving her 
papa and mamma ; still she had lately become more desirous 
of pleasing Lady Catharine, whose few words of praise were 
particularly valued, from the fact of their being but seldom 
given. 

‘ Then I may take them back,’ said Madeline, as soon as she 
found that Alice agreed with her scruples ; and, as she spoke, 
she opened her bag, and displayed the gay paper and gild- 
ing, in which the bonbons were wrapped. Alice’s eyes 
brightened. 

‘ O Madeline ! I don’t know ; how beautiful they are ! and 
so many ! Are you sure they are chocolate .? ’ 

‘ Not sure, because I have not opened them all ; but several 
arC; I know’ 


58 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


And you don’t like them, and I do, it seems such a pity — ■ 
and I know they won’t hurt me, I ate all those you gave me 
the other day, and I was not at all the worse for it. Just let 
me look at them one minute.’ Madeline gave up the bag, and 
Alice put a few in her lap, looking round cautiously at the 
same time, to see that Lady Catharine was not near. ‘ I don’t 
believe it would be so very wrong,’ she continued ; ‘ it is all 
nonsense thinking they would do me harm ; and, besides, 
Benson is to bring me the other sash to-morrow, and I shan’t 
know what to do with two.’ 

‘ To-morrow V repeated Madeline, ‘ then you are quite sure 
of having it .? ’ 

‘ Yes, quite ; Benson’s sister, the dressmaker, has it, and 
she is to get it from her. Your white frock would look so nice 
with it, Madeline.’ 

‘ Better than it does with this old pink one,’ said Madeline, 
looking down at her dress. At that minute Mrs Clifford was 
heard calling to Ruth, who had wandered away to some little 
distance. Alice caught up some of the bonbons to put them 
again into the bag, but, in moving, several fell down. 

‘ What shall we do .?’ she exclaimed, as she stooped to look 
for them ; ‘ Lady Catharine will be sure to see them.’ Madeline 
drew nearer to the pony-carriage to help in the search, but she 
was not able to be of much use, for Ruth came running towards 
her, telling her that her maimna was gone into a cottage with 
Lady Catharine, and that they were to follow directly. 

‘ Coming, coming,’ exclaimed Madeline, hastily ; going closer 
to Alice, she then whispered, ‘ Shall I take the bag ? ’ 

‘ No, no,’ replied Alice, ‘ I may as well have all now ; ’ and 
hiding the bag in the corner for Ruth not to see, she wished 
both the children ‘ good-bye,’ and began looking again for the 
stray bonbons. Madeline walked slowly away, with a feeling of 
greater pleasure than pain. She had gained her wishes, and 
not entirely by her own doing, and so she fancied herself free 
from blame, and yet her conscience still told her that all was 
not right. If she had not brought the bonbons with her, Alice 
would not have kept them ; but Madeline was glad instead ot 
sorry at being forced to give them up, and when the idea crossed 
her mind that she might even now refuse to receive the sashes, it 
gave her a pang, and she said to herself that it would only be 
foolish, since all the harm was done. Alice had seen Benson, 
and taken the bonbons, and it could neither make things better 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


59 


nor worse for her to give up her part of the business, and part 
with what she liked, without having anything in exchange — 
and after all it was Alice who had disobeyed. This seemed 
very true, and it passed quickly in Madeline’s thoughts, as she 
followed Ruth in silence to the cottage. But the sound of Lady 
Catharine’s voice brought the dread, that what had been done 
might be found out, and Madeline’s heart sank within her. Yet 
why should it — if she had done no harm ? 

The next day was Sunday : there were no letters, but Ruth 
had not less cause for uneasiness than before, for there was no 
longer any doubt that something had happened to distress her 
papa and mamma — their manner showed it too plainly. Made- 
line likewise was altered : she was fretful and discontented ; 
but Ruth did not think much about it, and was so occupied in 
watching her mamma, that she did not observe a little scene 
which passed between her sister and Alice Lennox, as they met 
at the church door, when the service was over. Alice managed 
to draw Madeline aside, and pulling a small brown paper parcel 
out of her pocket, she offered it to her. Madeline shook her 
head and seemed shocked, and Alice coloured, and laughed, 
and tore off a piece of the paper to show something green within. 
Madeline looked, and Alice whispered, ‘ Promise you won’t 
show it to your mamm, till I say you may.’ Madeline drew 
back, and pushed the parcel away, but as Alice was about to 
put it into her pocket, she caught hold of it to inspect the ribbon 
more closely. That second look completed the temptation. 

‘ Why must not I tell mamma, now ? ’ she said. 

‘ I can’t say ; there is no time : will you or will you not ? ’ 
Alice laid her hand upon the parcel. Madeline gazed with a 
longing desire to possess ; then yielded, promised, and took 
possession. • 


CHAPTER VII. 



ERHAPS it might be interesting if we were to go back 


JL with Alice Lennox to the Manor, and see what kind of 
afternoon she spent with Lady Catharine Hyde after they had 
returned from the second service, and had looked in at the 
school to inquire how many girls had been present qt church, 
and which were to have prize-marks for good behaviour. Alice 


6o 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


was less talkative than usual (for, strange though it may seem, 
she was sometimes very talkative when alone with Lady 
Catharine); she did not make any remarks upon the singing, 
nor repeat anything which Mr Clifford had said in his sermon ; 
neither did she once mention the names of Madeline and Ruth. 
She had a weight upon her mind which prevented her from 
turning her thoughts to other things. Lady Catharine, too, 
was silent ; — indeed she seldom said much except when Alice 
began : — but she held her little companion’s hand in hers, and 
once or twice patted it, and looked smilingly in her face ; and 
these trifling marks of affection Alice had lately begun to under- 
stand meant as much, or more, than other person’s words. She 
could not, indeed, tell how much — few children can fully com- 
prehend the love which grown-up people feel for them — but if 
Alice had known how, when Lady Catharine rose in the early 
morning, one of the first prayers was offered for her ; how, 
during the long day, she was forming schemes for her improve- 
ment and her happiness ; how she watched the changes of her 
countenance, and joyed in every symptom of amendment in her 
disposition ; and how, when night had closed in, and Alice was 
asleep, she would steal to her bedside, look at her, and try to 
discover a likeness to her mother, and then bend over, and kiss 
her, and silently ask God to bless and guard her from harm ; if 
Alice had known all this, she would perhaps have been even 
graver than she was, for she would have felt sorrow and shame 
at the idea of having done anything that might vex the dearest 
and kindest friend whom she possessed on earth. 

Lady Catharine went to her room for nearly half an hour when 
they reached home, and, during this time, Alice looked over her 
collect, and hymn, and a certain portion of the catechism which 
she did not remember correctly, in order to repeat them when 
she was called. She was obliged to be more particular than even 
in her common lessons in having them perfect ; for Lady Catharine 
always declared that it pained her to hear sacred things said 
blunderingly, as if they were not thought about or cared for. In 
general, Alice dined when Lady Catharine had luncheon, and 
drank tea with Marsham ; but on Sundays, in the summer time, 
she went into the garden, to walk up and down and learn all 
that she had to say, and then returned to drink tea with Lady 
Catharine in a little room called the study, which opened out of 
the drawing-room, and which, from its having a large bow 
window and pretty pink furniture, and containing a number of 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


6i 


books and pictures, was the most cheerful in the house. Alice, 
perhaps, would have liked better to have had tea in the summer- 
house, as Madeline and Ruth did, but Lady Catharine was afraid 
of her taking cold, and Alice did not venture to ask. This even- 
ing, however, it was so warm that Lady Catharine herself pro- 
posed that they should go out for a little while. Taking a book 
with her, she led the way to a bench at the lower end of the 
broad middle walk, and desiring Alice to seat herself on a stool 
at her feet, she began to read aloud. The book was one of which 
Alice had already heard a considerable portion. It was the story 
of a man who, having lived for many years in a large city with 
his wife and children, was told by a person, whose word he 
thoroughly believed, that, if he remained there, he must, without 
doubt, miserably perish ; that the city was doomed to destruction ; 
and that his only hope of escape was by immediately leaving all 
he loved — unless he could prevail on his family to join him — and 
setting out on a wearisome journey towards a bright and lovely 
home, prepared for him in a distant land by the Lord, whose 
servant he was. It described the sorrow of the poor man, and 
the obstinacy of his wife and children ; the difficulties of his way, 
and the hope which cheered him in the midst of them ; and, 
though it was written in old-fashioned language, and there were 
many parts hard to understand ; and some which Lady Catharine 
explained in words different from those used in the book ; yet, on 
the whole, Alice was interested. She knew well that the city 
was intended to represent the evil world ; and the man the 
Christian, who resolves to give up all wicked practices, and live 
according to the law of God ; and that by the lovely home in a 
distant land was to be understood that glorious heaven where all 
who have served their Saviour here shall be happy for ever and 
ever. At times. Lady Catharine stopped, and asked Alice ques- 
tions, or answered any which were put to her. Her manner was 
not winning, like Mr Clifford’s, and she did not always explain 
things clearly; yet Alice, who for many months had had no person 
to instruct her except Benson, was glad to meet with some one 
who was willing to attend to what she had to say, and to try, at 
least, to give her a reason for the things which puzzled her. 
Lady Catharine had read but a few pages, when, laying down 
the book, she said — 

‘ Alice, was there anything in Mr Clifford’s sermon at all like 
the history of Christian’s journey ? ’ 

Alice looked a little confused, for during the last part of the 


62 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


sermon she had not been attending, and she did not immediately 
recollect. At length, however, she said, ‘ I think Mr Clifford 
mentioned something about every one’s having a journey to go.’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Lady Catharine ; ‘ but can you tell me what 
he said was the first thing which made people set out on it in 
earnest,?’ Alice was silent. ‘It was the same thing,’ con- 
tinued Lady Catharine, ‘ which made Christian leave the city 
of Destruction, it was a belief in what was told him ; and Mr 
Clifford said also, that that was the reason why when children 
are baptized they are obliged to promise that they will “ believe 
all the articles of the Christian faith,” because if they do not 
believe rightly, they will be sure not to act rightly. I think, 
Alice, we read a little while ago in the Bible, something which 
will give an instance of this ; of a man who believed, and his 
sons-in-law who did not believe, and what happened to them in 
consequence.’ 

‘ Was it about Lot .?’ inquired Alice. 

‘ Yes,’ replied Lady Catharine ; ‘ if you remember, when Lot 
went to tell his sons-in-law that the city of Sodom would be 
destroyed, it is said that, “ he seemed to them as one that 
mocked ; ” and so, when Lot escaped to the mountain, they 
persisted in staying behind, and were burned’up with all the 
other miserable inhabitants of that wicked city. They did not 
believe, and it is just the same in these days.’ 

‘ But no one has come to tell us that we shall be destroyed,’ 
said Alice. 

Lady Catharine looked vexed, and taking up a Bible, which 
she had with her, she turned to the third chapter of the second 
epistle of St Peter, and pointing to the tenth verse, said, 
‘ Read it.’ 

And Alice read, ‘ The day of the Lord will come as a thief 
in the night, in the which the heavens shall pass away with a 
great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat ; 
the earth also, and the works that are therein, shall be burned 
up.’ 

‘ You see,’ observed Lady Catharine, almost sternly, ‘ that 
you spoke without thought.’ Alice felt ashamed, and Lady 
Catherine continued : ‘ This is one of the great things we are 
bound to believe, but there are many others ; where are they to 
be learned.?’ 

‘ In the Creed?’ asked Alice. 

* Yes,’ replied Lady Catharine, more kindly ; ‘they are to be 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


63 


learned from the Creed ; and the Creed teaches us shortly what 
the Bible tells us in full ; and it was taught by the apostles to 
the early Christians, and by them to those who came after 
them ; and so on down to these days. We are certain, there- 
fore, that it is true.^ 

‘ But,’ said Alice, who had a little recovered her courage, 
and was becoming more attentive, ‘ it can make no difference 
whether persons believe every single thing, if they do what they 
ought.’ 

‘ It does, though, make a great difference,’ replied Lady 
Catharine ; ‘ and no persons can do what they ought, in every- 
thing, if they do not believe what they ought. You, for instance, 
Alice, if you did not believe what I told you the other day about 
Benson, that she was an ignorant person without proper prin- 
ciples, who would lead you into mischief, would be unhappy 
without her, and would think me unkind, and perhaps might 
even be tempted to do something wrong in order to see her.’ 
At the mention of Benson, Alice was thunderstruck. The colour 
forsook her cheek, and again rushed to it, till her forehead be- 
came crimson, and in an agony of confusion she turned her 
face away, at the risk of bringing upon herself a reproof for 
inattention. She thought instantly that Lady Catharine knew 
all she had been doing ; but Lady Catharine did not know, nor 
suspect ; she only mentioned Benson’s name as an example, 
and Alice was much relieved when she went on : ‘You will be 
able, I daresay, to remember many instances in which if you 
had not believed what was told you, you would have been led 
into mischief.’ 

Alice could not think of any at the moment, for she was still 
rather frightened, and could only answer, ‘Yes.’ 

Lady Catharine again took up the book, and continued read- 
ing ; and Alice, while she listened, forgot her fears, but after a 
time they returned again. Lady Catharine was tired, and said 
she thought tea must be ready in the study, and they walked 
towards the house ; but as they passed the servants’ court Lady 
Catharine recurred to the same subject — the duty of children 
to believe what their friends tell them, as it is the duty of all 
persons to believe what God tells them. Pointing to the shut- 
up rooms, she said, ‘ Alice, I think you have every reason to 
believe my word, for I have never deceived you.’ 

Alice murmured, ‘ Yes.’ 

‘ Then,’ pursued Lady Catharine, ‘ you must think that what 


64 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


I tell you I shall do, is my real, firm intention. I daresay you 
cannot understand why I should forbid you to enter those rooms, 
and I am noi; going to give you any reasons ; I only want to 
remind you that as certainly as I find you have been there, so 
certainly I shall send you away from me ; where, I cannot tell ; 
but I will have no one in my house, whom I cannot trust.’ 
Lady Catharine drew herself up and looked very tall, and Alice 
breathed quickly, and did not know what to say. Instead of 
going into the house. Lady Catharine turned in the walk again ; 
and fearing that she had spoken harshly, she said in her kindest 
manner, ‘ It is my love for you, Alice, which makes me say this ; 

I should be so sorry — so very sorry — to be obliged to part with 
you ; and yet if I could not depend upon you, I must do it. 
But you would travel far over the wide world, and find no one 
who loves you as I do;’ and Lady Catharine, stooping down, 
kissed Alice’s forehead, and added, ‘ you are my own Alice, my 
child.’ This was one of the few occasions on which Lady 
Catharine had shown som.ething of her real affection ; and Alice 
could have been happy and pleased, but for the remembrance 
of Benson, and the sash, and the bonbons. She was indeed 
glad when Lady Catharine went on talking to her in the same 
tone ; and allow'ed her, when they went in, to pour out tea ; and 
then began to tell her some stories about some of the old family 
pictures : all these things made her feel at home, and she was 
sorry when Marsham came to tell her it was bed-time ; but 
when she was left alone she thought of Lady Catharine only as 
being severe, and when she laid down to sleep it seemed as if 
she could still hear her repeating — ‘ I will have no one in my 
house whom I cannot trust.’ 


CHAPTER VIII. 


ADELINE and Ruth passed the evening somewhat in the 



i T J- same way as Alice Lennox ; but they were not able to see 
as much of their papa as usual, for besides the two services, the 
school, and a funeral, there was a sick person to be visited ; and 
when all this was done, Mr Clifford was tired and obliged to 
rest in his own room. The tea, however, was prepared in the 
arbour, and the children looked forward to it with pleasure ; but 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


65 

when the time arrived, they found less enjoyment than they had 
anticipated. Both their papa and mamma were silent ; and 
after the tray was removed, Mrs Clifford went away, and her 
husband appeared engaged in his own thoughts. Madeline and 
Ruth looked at each other, but did not move, and the idea came 
into Madeline’s mind that her papa might be vexed about some- 
thing connected with her. A few minutes afterwards, Mr 
Clifford called them to him, and made them sit down by him, 
and then he said, ‘ We have been very grave to-night, my dar- 
lings ; don’t you think so ?’ 

‘ You have been grave several nights, papa,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Yes,’ and Mr Clifford tried to smile ; ‘ I am afraid I have, 
though I don’t know exactly why I should be; but people often 
are grave, without being unhappy, and your mamma and I have 
had a good deal to make us thoughtful lately. Do you know 
your aunt Mary is going to be married.?’ 

‘ Married ! papa,’ exclaimed both the children at once; ‘ and 
will she go away and leave poor grandmamma ? Oh ! what will 
she do ?’ 

‘ Your grandmamma will not be left, I hope,’ replied Mr 
Clifford ; ‘ at least, I am sure that your aunt would never con- 
sent to be married, if there were not some one to take her place. 
But your mamma is your grandmamma’s child, as well as your 
aunt Mary.’ 

‘ Mamma does not live with grandmamma,’ observed Made- 
line, ‘ so she can’t read to her as aunt Mary does.’ 

‘ Suppose your grandmamma were to come and live with us,’ 
said Mr Clifford; ‘would not that do away with the difficulty.?’ 

Ruth considered a little — she did not express much pleasure 
at the prospect, for her grandmamma, Mrs Beresford, was very 
old, and a great invalid ; and whenever the children were with 
her, they were obliged to be extremely quiet, and scarcely ran 
about or talked at all. ‘ If grandmamma lives here,’ she said, 
at length, ‘ and mamma reads to her all day, there will be no 
one to hear us our lessons.’ 

‘ That difficulty may be done away with, too,’ replied Mr 
Clifford, with a little hesitation. ‘ You and Madeline may go 
to school.’ 

Ruth raised her eyes to her father’s face with an expression 
of complete bewilderment ; whilst Madeline exclaimed, ‘ To 
school, papa, away from you ! when should we come back 
again.?’ 

E 


66 LANETON PARSONAGE, 

‘ We should not like it/ said Ruth, sorrowfully. 

‘ I do not think we should any of us like to be separated, my 
dear child,’ said Mr Clifford ; ‘ and yet it may be necessary.’ 

‘ But will it be, papa ?’ inquired Madeline ; ‘ and when shall 
we go ? will it be to Miss Freeman’s ?’ 

‘ No, not to Miss Freeman’s,’ replied Mr Clifford, with a 
smile ; ^ Miss Freeman has too many little girls already to 
take care of ; but I think very likely it will be to a lady near 
London, a Mrs Carter, who is a great friend of your mamma’s.’ 

‘ But papa/ began Ruth, ‘ I don’t think — it seems ’ here 

she stopped, not knowing how to proceed. 

‘ You don’t think, perhaps, that I am in earnest, Ruth, be- 
cause the thought seems sudden ; but your mamma and I have 
been talking about it for several days.’ 

Poor Ruth looked miserable, and when she tried to speak, the 
words failed, and she burst into tears, Mr Clifford kissed her, 
and soothed her, but he did not try to comfort her by giving 
her any hope of remaining at home ; for, in fact, from the first 
moment that he had known that Miss Beresford would be mar- 
ried and go to India, if it were not for her dislike to leaving her 
mother when she was old and ill, he had determined to propose 
that Mrs Beresford should come to Laneton to live. Mrs Clif- 
ford’s time would then be constantly occupied, and there was no 
room for a governess in the house ; it would be right, therefore, 
to send Ruth and Madeline to school, in order that their educa- 
tion might be properly taken care of. Mrs Clifford, who loved 
her mother very much, was pleased at the notion of having her 
with her, and trying to make her happy ; but the prospect of 
parting with her children was a great trial ; and nothing but 
her firm trust that so long as she acted rightly, God would order 
all things for good, had enabled her to consent with readiness. 
There were many questions asked as soon as the two little girls 
understood that their papa really meant what he had said, but 
they were principally put by Madeline ; Ruth, although she 
dried her tears, and even tried to smile, still looked distressed, 
and scarcely liked to listen to anything that was said upon so 
disagreeable a subject. To Madeline, the idea, after the first 
moment, was rather agreeable than not. Of all things she 
liked seeing new places and new people ; it would be delightful 
to go to London, and they should have a great deal to talk 
about when they came back; and, besides, it would be so 
strange to go to school, and to have new playfellows ; and 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


67 

veiy likely they should have prizes. Altogether, she thought 
there would be a good deal of fun in it ; but she hoped Ruth 
would not cry, for all the girls would laugh at her. 

‘ I shall not cry, you may be quite sure of that,^ said Ruth, 
in an offended tone ; ‘ I don’t do it half as much as you do, 
Madeline ; only you like going about, and I don’t, and that is 
the reason you don’t care as I do about school.’ 

^ There is no cause to be ashamed of crying, my dear Ruth,’ 
said Mr Clifford ; ‘ I am not sure that I could not cry myself, 
if I were to try, about it.’ 

Ruth laughed. ‘ Oh no, papa ; men never cry.’ 

‘ Not often when little girls see them, certainly ; but I have 
more cause for it now, perhaps, than you have, because I see 
more things to make me uneasy and afraid.’ 

‘ Afraid of what, papa ? ’ inquired Madeline. 

^ Afraid • lest my two children should not behave well at 
school, and should forget what they have been taught, and re- 
turn home spoiled in any way.’ 

‘ But our governess will teach us properly, as mamma does,’ 
said Madeline. 

‘Yes, I fully believe she will, or I should not trust you to her; 
but school is a very different place from home. There are 
many more temptations and trials, and you will have more com- 
panions to lead you into mischief.’ 

‘ But we shall not attend to them, papa,’ said Ruth, whose 
spirit was now roused by the idea of seeing more of the world, 
and being placed in difficulties. 

‘ Ah, Ruth ! that is the danger ; we think we shall not do 
wrong, and so we do not keep ourselves humble, and do not 
pray to God to guard us. It is very much safer to feel that 
most likely we shall wish to do as others do, because our hearts 
are as sinful ; and then we shall learn not to trust to ourselves, 
and through the mercy of God we may escape.’ 

‘ But Ruth is always good at home,’ said Madeline. Ruth 
blushed, and felt pleased ; though her conscience reminded her 
of several faults which none of her friends knew. 

‘ God only can judge whether Ruth is always good,* said Mr 
Clifford ; ‘ but I think, if we read the Bible, we shall find that 
all persons have sinned, and come short of the glory of God : 
it is said repeatedly. We sometimes fancy we are good, 
because we are not aware how perfect we ought to be. You 
know we are to keep the commandments of God, and to walk 


68 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


in them all the days of our life. Not to keep one or two com- 
mandments sometimes, but all of them at all times.^ 

‘ It is impossible,’ sighed Madeline. But Ruth said nothing. 

‘ Imagine what you would be if you were to keep all God’s 
commandments,’ continued Mr Clifford : ‘ you would get up 
early in the morning, and your first thought would be about 
Him, and His goodness in taking care of you ; you would say 
your prayers without any wandering thoughts ; all the day you 
would be endeavouring to please Him ; you would never use an 
unkind word, or give way to a proud thought, but you would be 
humble and gentle, constantly trying to do what you could to 
make other persons happy, and never seeking your own pleasure 
instead of theirs. When you read the Bible, you would not do 
it irreverently, as if it were a common book, but as if you really 
felt and believed that it was God’s holy word ; and besides this, 
you would never be envious nor discontented, but you would 
take everything that happened quite cheerfully, because it was 
ordered by God. Least of all, would you ever for an instant 
attempt to deceive, or say anything which was not strictly true, 
or do anything which you thought your mamma and I should 
not like.?’ Poor Madeline felt so guilty as her papa spoke, that 
her cheek became of a burning colour ; and Mr Clifford re- 
marked it. ‘ You are not well, my love,’ he said, anxiously. 

‘ Oh yes, papa ! indeed I am — quite ; only it is so hot.’ 

It was the second time that Madeline had been tempted to 
say what approached to an untruth, and from the same cause, 
— a wish to conceal another fault ; so dangerous is it ever to 
yield in the least matters. 

^ We will come into the open air,’ said Mr Clifford, ‘ under 
the beech-tree ; I think it is rather too warm here for comfort.’ 
Madeline liked the summer-house better than the beech-tree, 
but she did not dare object, and they went. Ruth was think- 
ing upon what had been said ; it had given her a clearer idea 
than she had possessed before of what was meant by being 
really good — keeping God’s commandments ; and she began 
to suspect, that after all she might not be so perfect as she was 
sometimes inclined to imagine. ‘ There is no use in wishing 
to be good, then, papa,’ she said. 

Mr Clifford seemed a little pained. ‘ But if we have pro- 
mised, Ruth,’ he said, ‘ and if, when we promised, God gave us 
His Holy Spirit to help us, what are we to say then?’ 

‘ But we cannot be quite — quite good,’ said Madeline, who 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


69 


was tr>dng in her own mind to find some excuse for her late 
naughty behaviour. 

‘Not quite/ replied Mr Clifford, ‘but always endeavouring 
to be ; which is all that God requires of us, when He requires 
us to promise that we will keep His holy will and command- 
ments, and walk in the same all the days of our life. How 
good, indeed, we might be, if we were to serve God from the 
beginning of our lives. He alone can tell ; certainly, very, very 
much better than we are ; and that is the reason, my dear chil- 
dren, why I am so desirous that you should commence early.’ 

‘When we go to school?’ said Madeline. 

‘No,’ replied Mr Clifford, ‘now — this very moment. Per- 
haps you will not live to go to school.’ Madeline was frightened. 
It seemed more dreadful then to think that she might die than 
it had ever done before ; yet, with her usual thoughtlessness, 
she forgot her dread as Ruth began asking some more questions 
about Mrs Carter, and where she lived, and how old her mamma 
was when she went to school ; and at last, when Ruth ran away 
to meet her mamma in one of the walks, Madeline ran too, and 
was soon talking 'as fast as if nothing was the matter. 


CHAPTER IX. 


FEW days afterwards, Mrs Clifford was seated in the 



drawing-room at the Manor, conversing with Lady Ca- 
tharine Hyde, and Madeline and Alice were together in the 
school-room. Ruth had a cold, and was therefore kept at 
home ; and Madeline was not very sorry for this, because she 
wished extremely to see Alice alone, and to prevail on her, if 
possible, to allow the sashes to be shown to Mrs Clifford. She 
had an excellent opportunity on this occasion, for they were 
sent out of the room, and told not to return till they were sum- 
moned ; and nearly an hour elapsed before any one came to 
them. All this time Lady Catharine and Mrs Clifford were 
engaged in an interesting conversation ; Mrs Clifford was re- 
peating to Lady Catharine the history of Miss Beresford’s 
intended marriage, and the difference it was likely to make in 
the plans for the education of Ruth and Madeline ; and Lady 
Catharine was giving Mrs Clifford some idea of her thoughts 


70 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


and wishes about Alice. Lady Catharine’s notions did not, 
indeed, entirely suit Mrs Clifford ; she considered some of 
them strange and not likely to answer, but she was pleased to 
hear them, because of the deep interest she took in the child, 
who had been the playfellow of her own little girls ; and who 
seemed left without the usual advantage of near relations to 
take charge of her. Lady Catharine thought Mrs Clifford per- 
fectly right in all she meant to do, and inquired many particu- 
lars of Mrs Carter’s school ; saying, that if she were ever 
obliged to part from Alice, it would be a satisfaction to know 
some place to which she might be sent without danger ; ‘ not 
that I have the least idea at present,’ she continued, ‘ of mak- 
ing any change in Alice’s life ; if I do, it will be entirely from 
her own fault.’ 

‘ She seems gentle and well-disposed,’ observed Mrs Clifford. 

‘Yes, I think she is,’ replied Lady Catharine ; ‘ at least, if 
she has a bad temper, she never ventures to exhibit it either to 
Marsham or me ; and she is quick at her lessons, and obliging, 
and contented ; but all this is not sufficient for me, my dear 
Mrs Clifford ; I must have sincerity ; and sincerity, I am sadly 
afraid, Alice does not possess.’ 

‘ She has not had much care, then, taken of her, I suppose,’ 
answered Mrs Clifford. 

‘ Yes, indeed, she has, at least till within the last year, just as 
much care as you, or I, or any one else. She could have learned 

nothing that was evil from ’ Lady Catharine paused — 

even then, after so many months, she could not mention Mrs 
Lennox’s name without tears. ‘ I wish but for two things,’ she 
added — ‘ truth and obedience ; so long as I have these I am con- 
tented, but if I ever have reason to suspect that Alice is deficient 
in them, in truth especially, I shall think it my duty to send, her 
away to some place where she will have fewer indulgences.’ 

‘ 1 do not see that she can have many temptations to do 
wrong here,’ said Mrs Clifford ; ‘she has seldom any companions.’ 

‘ No ; but if it is in a child’s heart to be deceitful, she is sure 
to find out some occasion of being so ; and Alice, I am afraid, 
was taught much that was bad by that foolish woman, Benson. 
At any rate, I have so arranged that I shall soon discover 
whether she is really to be trusted. I have given her one com- 
mand — a very easy one, which if she should break, my confidence 
in her will be gone, and then the sooner she leaves Haseley 
l^lanor the better. The discipline of a school will in such a 


lANETON PARSONAGE, 


71 


case be the only fit education for her/ Mrs Clifford knew what 
command Lady Catharine meant, but before she could tell 
exactly what to reply, Lady Catharine went on : ‘ There are, you 
know, some rooms in this house for which I have a peculiar 
feeling of reverence. The happiest moments of my life were spent 
in them ; and, since my earthly joy has been destroyed, I have 
taken a kind of sacred pleasure in keeping them just as they 
were during my dear husband’s lifetime ; all his books, and 
pictures, and writings, remain in precisely the same position as 
when he left them, and so it is my wish that they should con- 
tinue till my death. Perhaps it may be a fancy — a very peculiar 
one, but still I have it strongly, and I do not see why I should 
not indulge it. I have therefore forbidden any of my servants, 
except Marsham, to go into these rooms, under any pretence 
whatever ; and the same order I have given to Alice, and if she 
should disobey it, I shall have no difficulty in finding it out 
immediately : it is her trial, and upon her going through it well 
must depend, not my affection (that can never change, for I love 
her for her mother’s sake), but my trust in her. The rooms are 
often locked, but at times they are purposely left open ; and 
hitherto I have had no cause to think that Alice has been un- 
grateful enough to disregard my wishes.’ 

At this account, part of which only was new, Mrs Clifford 
felt uncomfortable. She did not agree with Lady Catharine, as 
to its being a good thing to put any such temptation in Alice’s 
way ; but she was not asked to give her opinion, and Lady 
Catharine’s very decided manner made every one shy of differing 
from her. Yet Mrs Clifford was so honest and open in her 
character, that she could not prevent her feelings from being 
expressed in her countenance, and Lady Catharine immediately 
inquired whether she had any reason for suspecting that Alice 
had, as yet, been guilty of deception. 

‘ Oh ! no, none in the least ; I was only thinking that if the 
door were kept locked, it might be safer. To see it open must 
excite her curiosity.’ 

‘ That is the very point. As she grows older she will con- 
stantly meet with temptations of the kind, and it is right that 
she should be early trained to resist them ; at any rate (and 
Lady Catharine drew herself up) it is my will.’ There was 
nothing to be said against this, and if there had been, Mrs 
Clifford saw that nothing was to be gained by an attempt at 
argument. Lady Catharine had a natural fancy for trying 


72 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


experiments, doing things in a different way from every one else ; 
and as she had succeeded in making the cottagers rear chickens, 
and raise potatoes, according to her own peculiar views, so she 
imagined that she should also succeed in educating Alice 
Lennox. 

In the meantime, Alice and Madeline had been tolerably 
amused and happy. Not as happy as they were before either 
of them had had anything to conceal, but still rather merry than 
not. Madeline did as she had resolved : she asked Alice to 
consent that the sashes should be shown to her mamma ; and 
so far she did right ; but when Alice refused, she did not trouble 
herself any more about the matter. Both were very well con- 
tented to make out a game with the bonbons, which Alice had 
left — a game in which Alice kept a shop and sold them, and 
Madeline went to buy, and paid for them with some shells which 
had been picked up on the shore. After a little while, Alice 
began to think that it would be pleasanter to go into the passage, 
and play upon a high window seat which had two steps up to it, 
and this accordingly they did. Alice took a number of other 
pretty things, pincushions, and beads, and coloured papers, out 
of her play drawer, in order to make what she called a bazaar ; 
and when they were all spread out they looked extremely gay, 
and Madeline was delighted, and heartily wished that Ruth had 
been there too. By and by, however, they grew a little weary, 
and sitting down on the steps they began talking ; whilst Alice 
amused herself by tossing the bonbons up in the air, and 
catching them again in her hand. Presently, one fell on the 
floor, and, being round, it rolled along the ground and behind a 
door which stood a little way open. Alice started up, gathering 
the remainder of the bonbons together in her lap : ‘ Oh,’ she 
exclaimed, ‘ it is gone, quite gone, and into that passage ; what 
shall I do ’ 

^Why.? what do you mean.?’ said Madeline, ‘we shall find 
it directly.’ 

‘ No, no,’ exclaimed Alice, hastily, and catching hold of 
Madeline’s frock, she prevented her from moving ; ‘ don’t you 
remember .? I told you just now that is the very door, the way 
into those rooms ? I don’t dare go.’ Madeline looked rather 
aghast. 

‘ If Lady Catharine finds the bonbon there, she will think 
you have been in,’ she said. 

‘ No, not if I tell her how it happened. If it were a ball or 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


73 


anything, I should not care, but one of those stupid bonbons. 
What shall I do t How I wish I had never had them ! and I 
don’t like them so very much now, there is a nasty taste in the 
chocolate.’ 

‘ If Lady Catharine asks how you came by them, what shall 
you say.?’ inquired Madeline. 

‘ Oh ! the truth, I must, of course — that you gave them to 
me.’ 

‘ And mamma will hear about it, and be angry,’ continued 
Madeline ; ‘ and perhaps she won’t let me keep the sashes, if 
she knows how we exchanged. Oh, that tiresome bonbon !’ 

‘ There is no use in talking of all that,’ said Alice ; ‘ what 
shall we do now .? ’ 

‘ Yes, what shall we do?’ It was a question which neither 
of the children knew how to answer. 

At length Alice said, ‘ It must be just behind the door ; 
looking for it there won’t be going into the rooms.’ 

‘ No,’ said Madeline ; Met me go, and I shall find it, I dare- 
say.’ Alice hesitated a little ; she fancied that Madeline would 
not see as well as herself, and perhaps would only roll it along 
farther, or do something equally awkward ; for Madeline was 
rather famous for doing awkward things. ‘ If it were known,’ 
continued Madeline, ‘ Lady Catharine would not scold me as 
she would you.’ 

‘ But,’ exclaimed Alice, who, with all her faults, was not un- 
generous, ‘ I should not like that. The bonbon is mine, and I 
threw it there, and if any one goes for it I must.’ 

‘ You must be quick then,’ said Madeline, ‘ mamma won’t 
stay much longer.’ Alice stood upon the step, uncertain how 
to act. ‘ You need not go in, only just peep round,’ said Made- 
line ; ‘ but make haste.’ The slamming of a door was heard 
at the same instant, and Alice thought Lady Catharine was 
coming. 

‘ I can’t go,’ she said, and she reseated herself. But again 
there was stillness, the slamming of the door was merely acci- 
dental, and there were no signs of Lady Catharine or Mrs 
Clifford. 

‘ Now, then,’ half whispered Madeline, who, to do her justice, 
felt more for Alice than for herself ; ‘ don’t go in, but just try 
behind for it.’ 

Alice moved slowly forward, pushed back the forbidden dooi*, 
and put out her hand in hopes of feeling the missing bonbon ; 


74 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


but no, it was not to be felt, and she was obliged to advance 
one step into the passage. Still it was in vain, and the next 
moment Alice was fairly within, searching for it in every direc- 
tion. The light was not very clear, for it came through a 
stained glass window, and in the passage — which was broad, 
but not long — there were some old lumbering pieces of furni- 
ture. Alice was about to give up looking, and resign herself to 
her fate, when her foot touched something small and round, and 
the bonbon rolled away still farther. Alice thought she could 
not then give it up as lost ; but again it was nowhere to be 
seen, and Madeline, who was keeping watch, became frightened, 
and, fancying she heard some one coming, entreated Alice in a 
loud whisper to return. Alice, however, notwithstanding her 
fears, was now too curious and tpo interested to listen. She 
had disobeyed, and she must take the consequences ; and since 
she had ventured so far, she was resolved to take one peep round 
the corner, although with a very faint hope of finding what she 
wanted. Heedless, therefore, of Madeline’s words, she moved a 
few steps, and then saw to her disappointment that a door, 
apparently closed, prevented any farther advance. The bon- 
bon, too, was gone — or, at least, it was beyond her reach ; for, 
on stooping down, she saw it safely resting far underneath a 
very heavy ebony cabinet, which it would have been impos- 
sible for any single person to move. Alice was so far satisfied 
that she was nearly sure no one would notice it ; but, now she 
was there, would it not be worth while just to push aside the 
door, and see what was to be discovered within ? Certainly it 
was a great temptation. The door stood ajar ; and, without 
delay, Alice put out her hand, and it was opened. There 
were the forbidden rooms — two, opening one into the other ; 
large and high, and hung with crimson curtains ; and panelled 
by a dark, oak wainscot. They were handsome and gloomy, 
like many in the other parts of the house, except that there 
were more pictures, and larger ones, against the walls than 
were to be seen elsewhere, and that, at the bottom of the inner 
room, there was a glass reaching from the ceiling to the floor. 
Chairs there were also, and tables, and a writing-desk, and 
books, and pens, and papers, and an inkstand, besides a heavy 
leathern arm-chair — pushed aside, as if some one had only- 
just risen from it. And yet years had gone by since any one 
had sat in that chair, or used those pens, or opened those 
books. Since the day when Mr Hyde was seized with the ill- 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 


75 


ness which caused his death, not one of the articles which lay 
upon his table, or were used for the furnishing of his room, had 
ever been displaced. Many, many changes had there been 
since in his native village ; old houses were demolished, and 
new ones built up ; walls were raised, and gardens planted, and 
trees were cut down and sold ; even in his own home there 
were alterations in the walks and shrubberies, and changes in 
the arrangements of the house, but still there remained the 
scattered papers, and the pen resting in the inkstand, and the 
old-fashioned easy-chair, precisely in the position in which 
they had all been left on that fearful, son'owing day, which had 
been the most miserable of Lady Catharine Hyde’s existence. 
Alice knew this, and she felt it ; even at that time, when she 
was so full of haste and alarm, she felt that there was some- 
thing strange and awful in looking at things just as they had 
been used and left by one who was long since gone to the 
unseen world. A shuddering came over her, and, without 
attempting to move, she stood at the entrance, with her eyes 
fixed upon the large glass, which by reflection increased the 
length of the apartments. The house was always quiet ; but 
now there was not the least sound, not even the ticking of a 
clock, to disturb the stillness of those solemn chambers, which 
seemed to belong, not to the living, but the dead. Alice was 
frightened ; a thought, a horrible thought, entered her head. 
jIt had been the will of God that he who had lived in those 
rooms should die almost suddenly. It might be His will that 
she should die also ; and if it were, should she be ready to go ? 
Was she really honest, and true, and earnest ; trying to do 
everything she knew was right, and practising no deceit .? 
Would God indeed receive her as His child, ‘a member of 
Christ, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven .? ’ or would 
He cast her away with those terrible words, ‘ Depart from me 
into everlasting fire 1 ’ The questions take some moments to 
write, but only one to think ; and when Alice had thought, a 
wretched remembrance of all her naughty actions came across 
her, and in an agony of terror she turned away and ran back 
along the passage. The door at the end was nearly closed, and 
Alice softly called Madeline, but no Madeline answered. She 
peeped out, but no one was in the gallery ; only Lady Catharine’s 
voice in the hall below was heard repeating her name angrily. 
Alice ran out, and at the same instant a door near her was 
opened, and Anne, the housemaid, Benson’s cousin, met her. 


76 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Alice blushed and trembled, and would have willingly passed, 
but she was stopped. 

‘ Miss Alice ! out of that passage ! What will my mistress 
say ? ’ 

Alice’s face became white with fear. ‘Anne — pray — ^you 
won’t — you can’t tell,’ she exclaimed ; ‘ I only went to look 
for ’ 

‘ Alice — Alice — where is Miss Lennox ’ asked Lady Catha- 
rine from below. 

‘ Hark ! I must go — it would be so cruel — Anne, pray — 
pray,’ and poor Alice caught hold of the girl’s hand entreat- 
ingly. 

‘ Well ! there, we ’ll see — I can’t tell — don’t pinch so. Miss 
Alice.’ 

Lady Catharine’s step was heard ascending the staircase, and 
Alice felt as if she should have fallen to the ground. She 
looked so ill that Anne saw it would not do to trifle with her, 
and, hastily whispering, ‘ Don’t look so. Miss Alice, pray don’t 
look so — nobody will tell,’ she left her. 

Alice did not stay a moment longer, but, summoning all her 
courage, she ran down-stairs, and met Lady Catharine just as 
she reached the first landing-place. ‘ Did you want me I 
thought I heard some one calling me,’ she said, in as free and 
open a manner as she could put on. 

Lady Catharine looked exceedingly displeased. ‘ Yes, Alice,’ 
she said, ‘ I did want you, but it is too late now ; Mrs Clifford 
and Madeline are gone. Strange behaviour, indeed, it is to 
leave your young companion by herself, and not to take the 
trouble to come and wish her good-bye.’ 

‘ It was only for a minute,’ replied Alice ; ‘ and I did not 
know she was going so soon.’ 

‘ Madeline Clifford is very good-natured,’ continued Lady 
Catharine, ‘ and she tried to make the best of it ; but I could 
see from her way of talking that she was vexed ; and you look 
strange, too ; I am afraid you have been quarrelling.’ 

‘ Oh no, no !’ exclaimed Alice, ‘ indeed we have not ; I like 
Madeline — I like to play with her very much.’ 

‘ Then you must be careful in your behaviour ; Mrs Clifford 
will never allow her little girls to come here to be neglected. 
What have you here ? ’ and Lady Catharine put her hand upon 
the bonbons, which Alice still held in her frock : this was the 
climax of Alice’s alarm, for she had forgotten them till then. 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


77 


She paused, and looked confused, and many thoughts rushed 
instantly to her mind ; and the next moment she said, in a 
clear, firm voice, ‘ They are Madeline’s : we have been playing 
with them.’ 

‘ Oh,’ was all Lady Catharine’s reply ; ^ then I shall keep 
them, and return them to her the first opportunity ; and I shall 
tell her that for the future she must not bring such things here : 
I do not approve of your eating them.’ 

Alice silently delivered up the bonbons, and Lady Catharine 
told her to go to the school-room and finish her lessons, as 
she wished to take her with her into the village in the evening. 
Alice obeyed, and for the first moment with a relieved mind ; 
but immediately afterwards a dark cloud of miserable feelings 
overpowered her. She had escaped a present danger, but at 
what a price ! she had told a lie, firmly, openly, without any 
hesitation ; she had spoken words which were utterly false. A 
deadly sin, perhaps the greatest a child can commit, was on 
her conscience, and how could she know a moment’s happiness? 
And was it likely that she could remain without being found 
out ? Madeline would surely speak the truth at once ; and 
even if Lady Catharine were to forgive the grievous fault, 
which she would then discover, there still remained the lost 
bonbon behind the ebony cabinet, which at any instant might 
be the means of betraying her act of disobedience in entering 
the forbidden rooms ; or, what was still more possible, the 
housemaid might take it into her head to tell upon her, and so 
be the means of her losing Lady Catharine’s favour for ever. 
Alice had many faults, but she had also by nature a warm 
heart, and it was this idea more than any other which made 
her utterly wretched. 


CHAPTER X. 


AN it be supposed that Madeline was happy when she 



returned home, and met Ruth’s bright, smiling face, and 
heard her declare that she had been longing for her to come 
back ; that she wanted of all things to know all they had been 
saying and doing ; and to hear if Alice had asked after her, or 
seemed sorry that she was not there ? Madeline, for almost 
the first time in her life, was unwilling to stay with Ruth ; she 


78 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


did not like to see her — indeed she did not like to see any one. 
It was very true that she had done nothing so wrong as Alice, but 
her fault, her folly, in wishing for the sashes was at the beginning 
of the mischief, and the belief that she was the only person who 
was aware of Alice’s disobedience made her feel uneasy. If 
Alice were discovered, she might be blamed also ; and oh ! 
how heartily did Madeline now repent having indulged that 
first seemingly little sin, a taste for the vanity of dress. 

Madeline’s unhappiness, however, though it was noticed, was 
not thought strange by her papa and mamma, especially when, 
the next day, a letter arrived from Mrs Beresford, accepting 
the invitation to Laneton ; and another from Mrs Carter, 
saying that she was very willing to take charge of the two 
children, and that at the end of September she expected to 
have two vacancies in her school, which would enable her to 
receive them. Ruth and her sister were not positively told 
that it was fixed for them to go, but it was considered almost as 
a certainty ; and neither Mr nor Mrs Clifford felt surprised 
that they should both at times look grave at the prospect of 
soon leaving their home. Mr Clifford did not allow this idea 
to interfere with their usual way of going on ; they were still 
kept to their lessons, and required to attend to their regular 
duties, for he knew that it could neither be for their improve- 
ment nor their happiness to have their minds unsettled ; and 
this, perhaps, was rather a comfort to Madeline. It occupied 
her ; and she had not so much time for wondering how Alice 
was engaged, or whether her disobedience had been found out; 
and though something was constantly happening to recall to her 
thoughts what had been done, yet she was less uneasy than she 
would have been if she had had nothing to divert her mind. 
Madeline was growing used to the feeling of having something 
to hide ; it was dreadful to her at first, but by degrees it grew 
less and less painful ; and it is the way with us all ; but it is 
not because we do not see our faults, or think about them, 
that we are really good in the eyes of God; rather we 
ought to be very much frightened at ourselves when we find 
that we are becoming accustomed to doing wrong. Occa- 
sionally, however, Madeline’s conscience seemed to wake up, 
as it were, and reproach her ? but this was not, as might 
have been expected, when she knelt down at night, and 
in the morning, to say her prayers : for persons soon 
become accustomed to repeating the most solemn words without 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


79 


any thought of what they mean ; neither was it when she read 
over a list of questions which her mamma had drawn out to 
help her to remember what she had been doing, and whether 
she had been careless, or deceitful, or cross, or inattentive at her 
prayers and Scripture reading, or otherwise sinful. Madeline, 
as yet, did not know the real use of this habit of what is called 
self-examination — how necessary it is for every one who would 
live so as to please God — she read the questions over, as a 
matter of course ; and sometimes one or two things would 
suggest themselves, but she did not in general try very much to 
remember, and now there was something which she would 
rather have forgotten. 

The occasions when Madeline did feel that she had been 
behaving ill were when her papa was talking to her. Mr 
Clifford’s manner was so earnest and reverent, and yet so 
affectionate, that it was impossible for any one to listen to him 
without paying attention ; and Madeline loved her papa dearly; 
and when she reflected that if he knew what she had done he 
would be vexed and unhappy, she was vexed and unhappy her- 
self. This feeling was increased to the utmost one afternoon 
when she had been for a walk with Ruth and her papa. On 
their return Mr Clifford proposed that instead of going at once 
to the parsonage, they should turn down the lane which led to 
the sea-side, and rest a little while on a ledge of low rocks, 
which always afforded a dry seat. It was not quite high tide, 
but the waves were stealing in nearer and nearer, rippling 
gently over the sand, and sparkling as they caught the rays of 
the evening sun, which was sinking low in the western sky, 
and casting a long line of golden light acro^ the smooth waters 
of the bay. There was something soft and soothing in the 
stillness and beauty of the scene and the hour ; something 
which Madeline and Ruth felt, though they did not speak of it. 
They became more silent, and their steps were slower ; and 
instead of wandering away to look for sea-weed, or gather 
pebbles, they stayed contentedly by Mr Clifford’s side, waiting 
till he should choose to speak ; but they waited for a long, or 
at least what seemed to them a long time. Mr Clifford’s eyes 
were fixed upon the far distant line, which, indeed, could 
scarcely be distinguished, where the deep colours of the sea 
melted away into the paler tint of the sky, and he seemed to 
be in deep meditation. Perhaps he was thinking upon the 
awfulness of that glorious work of God, the broad, deep ocean ; 


8o 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 


so broad that millions and millions of human beings might 
find space to travel over its surface together ; and so vast and 
deep, that they might all in an instant sink beneath it and 
perish, and yet not a single mark remain to tell where they had 
died : or he might have been considering the immensity of the 
sky which was above him and around him ; how it was formed 
by the same Being who made the little insects which we tread 
under our feet, and how that Almighty God, the Lord and 
Creator of all things, had in His wonderful mercy given up 
His blessedness and His power, and condescended to live in 
this sinful world, and die in agony and shame for the sinners 
Avho had rebelled against Him. Some such thoughts were 
certainly in Mr Clifford’s mind, for they were there constantly ; 
he had learned to remember God everywhere ; and all the beau- 
tiful things which he saw in nature brought with them some 
idea of religion, in the same way as the presents given us by 
friends teach us to recollect, and love, and feel grateful to them. 
Yet Mr Clifford’s look was different from usual ; he had a 
sense of something painful which was going to happen ; and 
when, after his long silence, he turned to speak to his children, 
his voice was not really cheerful, though he tried to make 
it so. ‘A few more weeks,’ he said, ‘and then you will 
probably have very different things to look at, Ruth : how do 
you think you shall like all the gay carriages, and horses, and 
the fine shops, and the crowds of people, and the noise and 
bustle of London ? ’ 

‘ I shall be glad to see it all,’ said Ruth, in a timid voice, as 
if unwilling for her papa to suppose that she was looking for- 
ward to any pleasurS in going from home. 

‘ That is right, my dear child,’ he replied, ‘ always speak the 
truth. You don’t dislike the notion of going to school as much 
as you did, do you .? ’ 

‘No, papa, not the going to school; but the going away from 
you I do, just as much.’ 

‘ School will not be at all unpleasant to you, if you make a 
point of doing all that you are told, and being quite sincere in 
everything you say,’ replied Mr Clifford. 

‘ Mamma says Mrs Carter is very kind, and is not fond of 
making rules,’ said Madeline. 

‘No, and so you ought to be the more particular. But do 
you know, Madeline, my fear for you both is, not that you will 
do great naughty things, but little ones.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


8i 


* Oh, papa, why ? ’ exclaimed the children together ; ‘ it 
can’t signify half as much.’ 

‘ Perhaps not ; but I think you are tolerably safe from some 
great sins — lying and stealing, for instance ; but I do not 
think you are at all safe from what are thought little ones — 
indolence, and pettishness, and carelessness, and equivocation; 
and shall I say pride, Ruth, or is that one of the greater 
offences ? ’ Ruth blushed. 

‘ But if we never do anything more than these little things, we 
shall be pretty good,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Pretty good will not do,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ we are never 
told in the Bible to be pretty good, but very good ; perfect, even 
as our Father which is in heaven is perfect.’ 

^ And will God be angry with us just the same as if we did 
tell lies and steal ? ’ asked Ruth, gravely. 

‘ Yes, Ruth, if you do not try to grow better : you know, in 
cases of illness, people die from colds and seemingly trifling 
complaints, as often, or oftener, than from dreadful accidents, or 
the plague, or horrible fevers ; and so we may all die an eternal 
death. I mean we may be all punished everlastingly, not be- 
cause we have apparently anything very shocking the matter 
with our souls, but because we have a great many little things 
which prove that we have no love to God in our hearts.’ 

Madeline considered for an instant, and then said, ‘ Careless- 
ness does not seem to be very naughty.’ 

‘Few of our faults seem to be very naughty,’ answered Mr 
Clifford, ‘ and that is the danger. I daresay Cain’s fault in 
being envious of his brother, because he had more of God’s 
favour than himself, did not seem very naughty — it was only 
something in his mind ; but if envy was the beginning of his 
sin, murder was the end.’ 

‘ Oh ! but, papa,’ exclaimed Ruth, ‘ it would be quite im- 
possible for us to be like Cain.’ 

‘ Indeed, Ruth ! I cannot see it. It is not impossible for us 
to be anything that is wicked, if we do not try, by the help of 
God’s grace, to keep ourselves in that state of salvation in which 
we w’ere placed at our baptism.’ 

‘ I don’t understand about a state of salvation,’ said Made- 
line, quickly ; ‘ I never do when we say it in the catechism.’ 

Mr Clifford did not reply immediately ; he seemed to be 
occupied in watching a boat which was just putting off from the 
shore. Old Roger -was in it, and one of his grandsons ; and 

F 


82 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


after a slight exertion, it was pushed into the deep water, and 
the two men, with their oai'S skimming the waves, were swiftly 
borne away over the sea. ‘ It looks smooth and pleasant,’ 
observed Mr Clifford, as his eye followed the boat till it dwindled 
almost to a speck ; ‘ but I am afraid there is a storm coming 
up : do you see that black cloud in the west ? ’ The children 
looked in the direction in which their papa pointed, and, though 
not experienced in the signs of the weather, saw at once that a 
change was to be expected. ‘ I am always rather in alarm 
when old Roger goes out,’ said Mr Clifford, ‘ he is so helpless ; 
and William is a mere child in point of strength, especially since 
he had that bad fever.’ 

‘ But the boat is such a beautiful one, papa,’ said Ruth, 
‘ quite new ; I heard Roger say yesterday, that it would take a 
great deal to upset it.’ 

‘ Yes, that is very true,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ and, whatever 
storms may arise, as long as he can keep in the boat, he will be 
safe ; but a little carelessness, or the violence of some unexpected 
gust, may put him in fearful danger. There is one thing, how- 
ever, which would make me trust Roger more than any other 
fisherman on this coast — he is always on the look-out.’ Mr 
Clifford stopped to see whether his children at all understood 
what he meant by speaking in this way. Madeline was amusing 
herself with some pebbles which she held in her lap, and did 
not appear to notice that her father had left off talking ; but 
Ruth looked at him, and said, ‘ Papa, are you really thinking 
much about old Roger ? ’ 

Mr Clifford smiled. ‘ Why should you doubt it, Ruth ? I 
am thinking a little about him ; but, perhaps, I am thinking 
more about you and Madeline.’ 

‘ About us, papa ? ’ exclaimed Madeline ; ^ nothing can come 
to hurt us.’ 

‘Is it, indeed, so ? ’ asked Mr Clifford, in a grave tone ; ‘what 
should you say to Roger, if he laughed at the notion of guard- 
ing against a storm, because he is now safe in his boat ? would 
you not call him foolish and presumptuous, and warn him, that 
his not being in danger at this moment is no reason why he 
may not be so in the next?’ 

‘ Is that like us, and our doing wrong ? ’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes,’ replied Mr Clifford, and his face brightened with plea- 
sure ; ‘just now, Madeline said that she could not understand 
about a state of salvation, but now, perhaps, she will be able to 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


83 

do it. If a storm were to come on, Roger Dyson would not be 
safe, because he is on the sea ; his boat might be upset, and he 
might be drowned ; but as long as he could keep in the boat, 
he would be in a state of salvation — that is, a state in which, if 
he were to continue, he would be saved. Now there are other 
dangers much more terrible, of which the stormy sea is a type 
or figure, and through which every one who is born into the 
world has to pass, before he can reach heaven. These dangers, 
as you well know, arise from our own evil inclinations, and the 
temptations of the devil ; and in order that we may be enabled 
to escape them, God, in his great mercy, has placed us all in 
a state of salvation. How has he done this ? * 

‘ By letting us be baptized,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Exactly so ; when we were baptized we were taken into what 
is called in the Prayer Book the Ark of Christ’s Church.’ 

< Like Noah,’ said Madeline, eager to show that she under- 
stood something of what was said. 

* Yes, like Noah,’ replied her papa : ^ we were not, indeed, 
taken away from our friends — there was no change in our 
homes ; what was done for us, was done in our hearts by the 
gift of God’s Holy Spirit. But outwardly there are some great 
advantages granted to all persons who are baptized. Those 
who are not cannot, for instance, be admitted to the Holy 
Communion, and cannot, therefore, receive the especial bless- 
ings which God gives us through that sacred rite. The sprink- 
ling with water at the font ; the signing with the cross ; the 
being brought up to go to church and join in public worship ; 
and the being taught to read the Bible and learn the catechism ; 
and then being confirmed and allowed to receive the Holy 
Communion, are outward marks of our having been taken into 
the Ark of Christ’s Church, and so being in a state of salva- 
tion.’ 

‘ Then I am sure we are in a state of salvation, papa,’ ex- 
claimed Madeline, ‘ because we go to church every Sunday, and 
we can say the catechism all through.’ 

^ Except the duty towards your neighbour,’ observed Ruth ; 

‘ you can’t say that, Madeline.’ 

^ No, all but that, it is so long ; but I can say it a great deal 
better than I did.’ 

^ And we shall be confirmed when we are old enough, papa,’ 
added Ruth. 

‘ Yes, I hope so, my dear ; and yet you may do all this — 


84 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


you may say your catechism, and repeat your prayers, and read 
the Bible ; and you may even grow up to be confirmed and to 
receive the Holy Communion, and still, in the sight of God, 
not be in a state of salvation — the inward mark may be want- 
ing/ 

‘ We ought to be good too,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes, good in your hearts — in all your thoughts, and words, 
and deeds — trying earnestly, and praying constantly, for the 
help of God’s Holy Spirit : if you do this, all the privileges of 
religion will be an unspeakable good to you ; but if you do not, 
they will only make you worse, because you will be hypocrites.’ 

‘Hypocrites are grown-up people, are they not.?’ inquired 
Madeline. 

‘ Very often they are ; but little children can be hypocrites ' 
too, when they know they have been doing naughty things, and 
kneel down to say their prayers without being sorry, or when 
they say they are sorry, and don’t try to behave better — then 
they are hypocrites. Or when they do what they know will 
please their friends whilst they are with them, and disobey them 
when they are out of sight — then they are hypocrites. There 
are a great, great many ways in which children can be hypo- 
crites.’ 

‘ I should be very sorry to be a hypocrite,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Not so sorry as I should be to see you one, Ruth. I mean, 
really one — going on constantly in deceit, and yet pretending 
to be good.’ If Mr Clifford had looked at Madeline as he 
spoke, he would have seen her countenance change, and her 
hands tremble as she tried to lift some pebbles which lay in her 
lap. The thought that she was a hypocrite was very dreadful ; 
but what had her papa said ? He had told them, that those 
were really hypocrites who went on deceiving, while they pre- 
tended to be good ; and she had gone on for days, and even 
weeks, keeping what she was afraid to show even to Ruth, en- 
couraging Alice in deceit ; and, at the same time, saying her 
prayers every night and morning, and reading the Bible, and 
listening to all her papa and mamma said very attentively, rather 
more so, indeed, than usual. It seemed extremely like hypocrisy ; 
but that was such a dreadful word, surely it could scarcely be 
meant for her. There was a question which she very much 
wished to ask, but she did not dare, for she could not lift up 
her eyes. Ruth, however, put it for her : — ‘ Are hypocrites in 
a state of salvation, then, papa .? ’ she said. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


85 


‘ We cannot decide about any persons whilst they are living/ 
replied her father ; ‘ so long as they are members of the Church, 
they certainly are not cast out of the state of salvation in the 
sight of men, but in the eye of God we know they may be. 
The condition of a wicked person is, in our sight, as if Roger’s 
boat were to be tossed about till it was all but upset ; you would 
be very much frightened for him ; but he would not be without 
any hope of safety.’ 

* I should not like to see him so nearly falling into the water* 
at all,’ said Ruth. 

* No, and neither should we like to see the danger we are in 
ourselves when we persist in doing wrong. It is very, very 
fearful ; for death, we know, may be really as near to us, as it 
would appear to be to Roger, if he were struggling in the stormy 
sea, and a wave were just about to pass over him. And if we 
die before we have obtained God’s forgiveness, for the merits of 
our blessed Saviour, our punishment will be more awful than we 
can possibly bear to think of.’ Madeline felt more frightened 
than ever ; she moved a little farther from her papa, that he 
might not observe her. ‘ The reason I talk to you in this way,’ 
continued Mr Clifford, ‘ is not because I am afraid you are very 
wicked now, but because I am afraid lest you should become so. 
You are watched over carefully here, and have not much op- 
portunity of doing wrong, but it will be different at school.’ 

‘ It would take a long time to make us very wicked, papa,’ 
said Ruth. 

* No, Ruth, indeed it is not so ; whilst we are heartily trying 
to do God’s will, we may trust that the Holy Spirit will be given 
us to keep us from harm ; but the moment we leave off trying, 
we have no reason any longer to hope that God will help us ; 
and when we are left to ourselves, we shall most certainly go on 
doing worse and worse. It is the first sin which we have to 
dread ; the first unkind word, or vain thought, or deceitful 
action, which, like the whistling of the wind, tells us that a 
storm is near. If we do not guard against this, it will end by 
upsetting our boat and plunging us into the sea ; or, in other 
words, by casting us out of that state of salvation in which the 
mercy of God placed us at our baptism. And now, Madeline,’ 
continued Mr Clifford, ‘ you have been saying very little ; but 
can you understand better than you did what is meant by a 
state of salvation ? ’ 

Madeline answ’ered in a low voice, ‘ Yes and her papa, 


86 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


thinking she felt shy, drew her towards him, and kissing her, 
said, ‘ I should like to hear you say that answer in the cate- 
chism, which mentions our being in a state of salvation, and 
then we must think of going home. We have been talking of 
the storm, and I really think it is coming. The question is — 
“Dost thou not think that thou art bound to believe and to do as 
they (that is, your godfathers and godmothers) have promised 
for thee 7 ” What is the answer ? ’ Poor Madeline had never 
before found it so hard to speak. Twice she began, and then 
stopped and stammered. Mr Clifford smiled kindly, and said, 

‘ Is it quite gone out of your head.? Suppose you help her, Ruth.^ 

But Madeline did not choose to be helped, and this time as 
she began, the words came more easily, and she went on with- 
out hesitation. ‘ “ Yes, verily ; and by God’s help so I will. 
And I heartily thank our Heavenly Father, that He hath called 
me to this state of salvation, through Jesus Christ our Saviour. 
And I pray unto God to give me His grace, that I may con- 
tinue in the same unto my life’s end.” ’ 

Mr Clifford rose from his seat when Madeline finished 
speaking, and as he turned to look once more for the fisher- 
man’s boat, which was still seen as a speck in the distance, he 
said, ‘ Yes, there is nothing but prayer for God’s help which can 
keep us safe from the storms of the sea, or the storms of sin. 
You will find it thus as you grow older, though now, I daresay, 
you often wonder why so much is said about the duty of pray- 
ing constantly.’ 

Madeline murmured something in reply, but very indistinctly. 
‘ We never forget our prayers, papa,’ said Ruth. 

‘ No, my love, I trust not, indeed ; but prayers, if they are 
not said carefully and earnestly, are but a mockery.’ 

‘ Can people ever be so good as not to think of other things 
at all, when they are saying their prayers .? ’ asked Ruth. 

‘ No,’ replied her papa ; ‘ I do not think they can. The devil 
puts thoughts into the minds of even the best persons, but they 
are very sorry for it, and do not attend to them ; and when we 
are afraid that God will not hear us because we do not pray 
rightly, we must remember that we end all our petitions in the 
name of our blessed Saviour. If we endeavour to keep our 
thoughts from wandering, God for His sake will accept us.’ 

^ I should like to be very good,’ said Ruth ; ‘very good indeed, 
I mean, like the holy persons, the saints, whom mamma reads to 
us about sometimes.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


87 


Mr Clifford smiled, and then he stopped and looked at Made- 
line. ‘ And you, Madeline,’ he said, ‘ should you not like to be 
very good too ? ’ 

Madeline was by this time extremely unhappy. Her papa’s 
serious manner had made her sensible how infinitely important it 
was to be good ; a truth which, when she was away from him, she 
was often inclined to forget. She was conscious that she had 
been wrong, not only in taking the sashes, and giving Alice the 
bonbons, when she knew that Lady Catharine would not like it, 
but also in a great many other instances ; and whilst her voice 
faltered, and the tears fell down her cheeks, she said, ‘ I never 
shall be very good, if I try ever so hard.’ 

Mr Clifford did not seem pained or surprised at this speech : 
he took no notice of it then, for the storm which he had been 
fearing was now coming nearer ; some heavy drops of rain were 
falling, and the muttered roll of thunder was heard from the 
black clouds which were gathering over the sea. When they 
reached home, however, he made Madeline go with him into his 
study, and taking her upon his knee, he began to talk so kindly, 
that Madeline’s distress increased. Mr Clifford entreated her 
to be comforted, and to tell him what made her so unhappy, 
but her sobs prevented her from answering. At length he said, 
‘ If it is anything wrong which you have done, my dear child, it 
will be far better and happier to say it at once.’ 

Madeline’s tears suddenly ceased, a deep flush spread itself 
over her neck and forehead, and, hiding her face upon her 
father’s shoulder, she exclaimed, ‘ It was very wrong in me, I 
know, papa, now — but it did not seem much then.’ Mr Clifford 
perceived that some confession was at hand, but he did not like 
to press her, and Madeline continued in the same hurried 
manner : ‘ Mamma lets us wear sashes sometimes, and I 
thought she would not care, and Alice liked the bonbons, so 

I gave ’ but before Madeline could finish her sentence, a 

knock was heard at the door, and Ruth begged to know if she 
might come in. 

‘ Here is a note for you, papa, just sent from the Manor : 
Lady Catharine’s servant is waiting for an answer.’ 

Madeline had no sooner heard the word Manor, than her 
thoughts turned to Alice. ‘ Oh ! papa,’ she exclaimed in great 
agitation, ‘ pray don’t let Lady Catharine be angry. Alice did 
not mean any harm, it was my fault — indeed it was : I gave her 
the bonbons ; please beg her not to be angry.’ 


88 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


* I cannot understand all this, Madeline,’ replied Mr Clifford : 
' Lady Catharine begs me to go to her instantly, so I must know 
in few words what you have been doing.’ 

Notwithstanding the grave and decided tone in which her 
papa spoke, Madeline was relieved at having at length an 
occasion for freeing her conscience. She began at the first visit 
which they had paid to the Manor, and gave a history of all 
that had passed ; ending with, ‘ I would rather a great deal be 
punished than Alice.’ 

Mr Clifford was silent for a moment when Madeline finished 
speaking, and then he said, ‘ I cannot talk to you upon this 
subject now, Madeline ; probably I shall not be very long at 
the Manor, but I shall tell your mamma that you must stay here 
till I return ; ’ and he left the room. Madeline was panic- 
struck ; she had never seen him seriously angry before. Yet 
it was not exactly anger ; his voice was quiet and gentle, but it 
was plain that he thought the affair of consequence. 

When the door was closed the two children looked at each 
other in fear, and Ruth exclaimed, ‘ O Madeline ! how could 
you do it ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know — I can’t tell,’ sobbed Madeline ; ‘ it did not 
seem veiy naughty.’ 

‘ I said you had better not,’ continued Ruth, proud of her own 
superior judgment ; ‘ I said mamma would not like it, and you 
know she is sorry for your caring to be dressed out. And then to 
keep it so quiet — not to mention a word ! not to me ! it was so 
very unkind.’ 

‘ I thought you would tell, and I meant to show them by and 
by — and — but it would not have signified if Alice had not gone 
into the room — do you think Lady Catharine knows that ? ’ 

‘ I daresay she does,’ replied Ruth ; ‘ and that she will be 
horridly angry, and send Alice away. I heard nurse talking 
the other day about her, and she declared that she always kept 
her word ; and that when she said she would do a thing, she 
always did it. Only think, Madeline ! all because of the 
bonbons : how could you do it ? ’ Madeline could only reply 
by tears ; and then Ruth for the first time began to see that her 
pride and self-conceit had made her behave, it might almost be 
called, cruelly. Instead of comforting Madeline, she had added 
everything which could increase her distress. Ruth was naturally 
very warm-hearted, and loved her sister most dearly ; and now, 
as she stood by her, and saw her grief, she began to feel great 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


sorrow and self-reproach. Madeline was generally so full of 
happiness, it seemed something quite new and strange to hear 
her sob as if her heart would break. Ruth kissed her, and 
called her ‘ dear Madeline,’ andi wished that their mamma 
would come to them ; but when she offered to go and fetch 
her, Madeline held her fast, and protested that she would rather 
not see her, she would be so very much displeased ; besides, 
she was gone out. 

‘ She must be in by this time,’ said Ruth : ‘ look how black 
it is ; the storm is coming.’ 

Madeline, however, did not raise her eyes ; but when a 
distant rumbling sound was heard, she caught Ruth’s hand and 
held it tight. ‘ Papa thought it would come ! * she exclaimed : 
‘ it frightens me so.’ 

‘ Think of old Roger,’ said Ruth : ‘ it does not matter to us.’ 

‘ Yes ; but I don’t like it : do you think it will be very bad.?’ 

^ I don’t know ; it looks very black, very black indeed. 
There ! I saw the lightning, didn’t you .?’ 

Madeline shook with terror ; she had always had a great fear 
of thunder and lightning, and her papa and mamma had often 
tried to overcome it, but without success. Madeline felt what 
was quite true, that the dazzling flash and the loud peal were 
very awful ; and she did not consider that she was equally under 
the protection of God when the sky was lowering, as when it 
was bright without a cloud. At that moment it was especially 
fearful, for her mind was not at ease. All trials become worse 
to us when we are not at peace with ourselves, and happy in the 
consciousness of striving to serve God ; and as Madeline cast 
her eye upon the window, and saw the heavy cloud hanging 
before it, and the next instant watched the sharp, vivid light 
rush forth across the sky, and heard the crash of the thunder, 
she became speechless in alarm. Ruth was nearly as fright- 
ened ; she had never seen such a storm before. ‘ I will call 
mamma,’ she said, in a very low voice, when the peal died away. 
Madeline caught her dress as she was about to go ; but Ruth 
escaped into the passage. She ran along it quickly ; looked 
into the dining-room, and found that no one was there ; knocked 
at the drawing-room, and received no answer ; and was just 
going up the stairs, when she heard some one exclaim, ‘ How 
dreadful ! what, both lost .? ’ 

‘Not both; only the old one,’ was the answer: ‘the boat 
went to pieces at once.’ 


90 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


Ruth stopped, for she remembered the fisherman and his son ; 
and, forgetting Madeline, she called loudly to the housemaid to 
come to her. Almost at the same instant she appeared, very 
pale, and with an eager manner, evidently showing that there 
was something of consequence to repeat. ‘ Only think. Miss 
Ruth ! ^ she began ; ‘ such a storm ! and your poor papa and 
mamma both out ! and that terrible upset ! the boat went all to 
pieces.’ 

‘ Whose boat ? papa and mamma were not in it, were they ! ’ 
exclaimed Ruth, in her agitation. 

‘ No, miss, not they ; but the poor old man ! Isn’t it 
dreadful ? ’ 

Martha seemed quite awe-struck by the shock, and scarcely 
less so by the thunder, the sound of which was indeed alarming, 
rolling heavily along, and then bursting, as it seemed, im- 
mediately over the house in repeated claps. Martha caught 
hold of the balustrade, and shook from head to foot, but Ruth 
only remained the more still, as she generally did when she was 
feeling very much. ‘ Was it Roger’s boat ?’ she said, at length. 

Martha replied by a sigh ; and then recovering herself, she 
began to describe the circumstances of the accident : how the 
storm had come on, and, in consequence, Roger and his grand- 
son had given up their fishing expedition, and tried to reach the 
shore ; and how the people had been watching them, until, as 
they were nearing the land, the lightning struck the boat and 
shivered it to atoms. 

‘ But if they were so close,’ said Ruth, ^ they could not be 
drowned.’ 

^ Ah ! but ’twas the old man. Miss Ruth,’ replied the servant : 
‘ he couldn’t swim, do you see ; but young William did, so he 
got to shore ; but poor old Roger ’s gone, quite gone ; they picked 
up his body, but there wasn’t a bit of life left in it.’ 

Whilst Martha spoke, the tears gathered in Ruth’s eyes. She 
had never before heard of the sudden death of any person whom 
she had actually known ; and the thought that the man whom 
she had beheld so short a time before full of health and strength, 
notwithstanding, his age, was now taken from the world, com- 
pletely bewildered her. Ruth had never seen a person 
dead ; she could not imagine what death could be like ; and 
she longed for her mamma, and entreated Martha to try and 
find her, fancying that the merely being with her would be some 
protection. Martha said that Mrs Clifford was out, and begged 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


91 


her not to take on, for it could do no good to the poor old man : 
but Ruth did not think much of this comfort ; and finding that 
there was not any hope of her mamma’s return, she took hold of 
Martha’s hand, and begged her to go with her to the study ; 
for it thundered so, that she did not like to go alone, and she 
wanted to tell Madeline about poor old Roger. Martha con- 
sented, saying, at the same time, that the place she wanted to 
go to was the cellar : she had heard that was the best place in a 
thunderstorm. Ruth seized upon any notion of what she was 
told might be safety ; and, running back to the study, she opened 
the door, and called Madeline, intending that she should go with 
her. When she looked round, however, to her great surprise, 
Madeline was not there. She walked to the window and called 
again ; and went down the passage which led to the kitchen, 
and inquired there ; but no one knew anything of Madeline, 
except that the cook had heard her sobbing in the study, and 
the gardener fancied he had seen her running down the green 
walk. This every one declared was not at all likely ; and, after 
a hasty search, the servants began to be alarmed, and were 
thinking of sending for Mr Clifford, when a loud knocking and 
a well-known voice announced their master’s return. 


CHAPTER XI. 


HAT stormy evening was an important one to other persons 



1 besides Madeline Clifford. It was now a ^veek since 
Alice had entered the forbidden rooms ; and the days had 
passed, in appearance, exactly as before. Alice had risen at 
her ordinary hour — half-past six ; she had dressed, and learned 
her lessons, and then gone in to prayers, and breakfasted with 
Lady Catharine, and spent the remainder of her time in read- 
ing, writing, working, and walking, just as usual. Yet the week 
was in reality very unlike any other week which Alice had ever 
spent ; — much longer, and more unhappy ; and all who know 
what it is to have something on their minds which they are 
afraid may be found out, will understand how this was. Alice 
had not only to keep her own secret, but to persuade Anne, the 
housemaid, to keep it too ; and this was a rather difficult task. 
Anne was a young girl, thoughtless and selfish ; and in about 


92 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


a fortnight’s time she was intending to leave the Manor, and go 
to another situation. It did not signify to her, therefore, what 
happened to Alice ; and she took a malicious kind of pleasure 
in teasing her, by threatening to tell Lady Catharine. When- 
ever they met in the galleiy, Anne would shake her head, and 
point to the door, and say, ‘ Ah, Miss Alice ! you know ! ’ 
and then poor Alice would entreat her not to tell, and promise 
to give her anything she wished, and to be kind to her all her 
life, if she would only declare that she would never say any- 
thing about it. Anne never did promise, really ; all she said 
was, ‘ Well, we ’ll see ; I won’t tell to-day ; but then, you 
know, I must have just a little something for being so kind.’ 
This was a signal for Alice to go to the play-drawer, and bring 
out some one of her pretty things — a housewife, or a pincushion, 
or a little box — and offer it to Anne as a bribe ; though know- 
ing all the time that if she made Anne angry the promise would 
be broken, and Lady Catharine would be told all. A bought 
promise is never to be depended on ; and even when Anne was 
the most kind in her manner, Alice knew that she was deceitful 
in her heart. She soon began to feel a great dislike to her soft 
words ; and Marsham’s rough sincerity was, in comparison, 
quite agi’eeable. Once during the week she had seen Benson 
for a few minutes at the garden gate, and she had then some 
thought of confessing to her ; but Alice had sense enough to 
know that a person who will deceive in any one instance is not 
to be trusted in others ; and, much as she liked Benson, she 
was not at all certain that her secret would be safe with her. 
Yet Benson was very kind ; she kissed her, brought her some 
sugar-pluihs, and promised to make her a beautiful new pin- 
cushion ; and when she went away, her parting words were : 
‘ I will be sure to come and see you again, and we won’t care 
anything about Lady Catharine.’ Alice, however, did care for 
Lady Catharine, even with her stern features and her cold 
manner, for she knew that, she was true, and that Benson was 
not ; and the slightest smile from the one was really of more 
value to her than all the sugared words of the other, whom she 
could not in her heart respect. Each day was to Alice a day 
of anxiety. Sometimes she thought that Anne would tell ; then, 
that by some means or other Lady Catharine would find the 
lost bonbon in the passage, and inquire how it came there ; or 
else, that when the rest were returned, and Madeline was 
ordered not to bring any more sweet things to the Manor, she 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


93 


might say something which might betray what had been done ; 
though for her own sake, to conceal about the sashes, Alice 
trusted that she would not speak of the exchange. If Lady 
Catharine mentioned Mrs Clifford’s name, Alice’s colour went 
and came as though she were ill ; if a walk into the village was 
proposed, she was in dread lest they should meet some one 
from the parsonage ; and if anything was said about the two 
children’s coming for another day’s amusement, Alice did not 
dare express much wish to see them ; she felt that she could 
be safe nowhere. Perpetually she wondered whether Lady 
Catharine had sent back the bonbons ; and, if she had not, 
when she intended to do it ; but the fact was, that what to her 
was of great consequence, was a mere trifle to Lady Catharine. 
The bonbons had been put aside, with the intention of their 
being returned the next time Mrs Clifford came ; for having 
many engagements that week. Lady Catharine had not con- 
sidered it worth while to write a note. But perhaps the most 
painful thing of all to Alice’s feelings was Lady Catharine’s in- 
creasing kindness. She was growing more accustomed to a 
child’s habits ; and, being naturally considerate, she was learn- 
ing how to give Alice pleasure in many little ways which at first 
she would not have thought of. Alice really was improving ; 
she answered her Scripture questions much more readily ; she 
wrote her exercises more carefully ; and she was beginning to 
work to Marsham’s satisfaction. The pleasure which this 
gave to Lady Catharine could only be understood by persons 
who observed the difference between her present manner 
and what it had been before, ever since her husband’s death. 
There was now some one again to love and care for ; and Lady 
Catharine’s affection for Alice was becoming the great charm of 
her life. Even the villagers noticed the change ; and declared 
that my lady was quite another creature since she had taken 
little Miss Lennox to go about with her. She seemed to care 
for all children now, and really would pat them, and speak to 
them, instead of scolding them as she used to do ; and the first- 
class girls in the school actually looked forward with pleasure 
instead of dread to the fortnight’s examination ; for Lady 
Catharine made allowances for them when they were wrong, 
and praised them when they were right ; whereas before, she 
had expected them to be perfect, and if they were, scarcely 
seemed to think they deserved to be rewarded. Alas! that 
children should by their own misconduct throw away the love 


94 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


and the attention which God has given to be the greatest bless • 
ings of their lives ! 

It was the same day on which the conversation had passed 
between Mr Clifford and his little girls, held on the sea-shore. 
Alice had been more alone than usual, for Marsham was gone 
to see her mother, who was ill, and lived at a considerable dis- 
tance from Laneton, and Lady Catharine had kept very much 
to her own room. She was thinking particularly of her hus- 
band ; for at that same season, fifteen years before, she had 
been first married ; the first arrival at the Manor was fresh in 
her memory ; she recollected his affectionate words, and his 
anxious endeavour to make her happy, and how she had looked 
forward to a long life of enjoyment ; and now ten years had 
gone by since he had been laid in his quiet grave, and she had 
been left a widow indeed, and desolate. Kneeling in her 
chamber alone. Lady Catharine recalled all the circumstances of 
her great loss, and the blessings which had still followed her in 
life ; and as she repeated them one by one — the opportunities 
for public and private prayers, God’s holy word and sacraments. 
His minister to be her friend, her health, and strength, and 
rank, and fortune — tears of thankfulness mingled with her 
sorrow ; and when at last the name of Alice Lennox passed 
her lips, she prayed earnestly, most earnestly, that it might 
please her Heavenly Father still to preserve to her this one 
great blessing, which had made the last few months happier 
than she had dared to hope her earthly life might ever be again. 
The prayer was ended, and Lady Catharine rose ; and going to 
her bureau, took out a packet of letters, which she had received 
from her husband in the early period of their married life : they 
made her very melancholy, yet the satisfaction which she felt in 
reading them induced her to occupy herself with them much 
longer than she had at first intended. Something was said in 
one of them about a roll of old papers which contained some 
interesting anecdotes of Mr Hyde’s family. Lady Catharine 
well remembered having been engaged at the time when she 
received this letter, so that she could not look for the papers ; 
and afterwards various circumstances prevented her from think- 
ing much about them : now a strong desire seized her to find 
them ; and taking the keys belonging to her husband’s rooms, 
she determined upon searching for them ; for a long time, how- 
ever, she looked in vain ; neither in the desk, nor the writing 
tables, neither in the drawers, nor the cabinets, were any such 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


95 


papers to be seen. As a last hope, she determined upon ex- 
amining the bureau in the entrance passage, though she believed 
it to be empty ; and so, indeed, it proved ; but just as Lady 
Catharine was moving away in disappointment, she discovered 
a little edge of paper between the bureau and the wall ; and 
on trying to draw it out, she found that it was part of a large 
packet, which had slipped down, and could not be taken up 
without danger of tearing it. Lady Catharine’s dislike to allow- 
ing her husband’s apartments to be entered made her doubt, at 
first, whether she would call any one to move the cabinet ; but 
as it was probable that this roll of paper was the very one for 
which she was looking, she at length summoned the men-ser- 
vants, and the bureau was with some difficulty removed from 
its place. The papers fell to the ground ; and as the butler 
stooped to gather them up, he picked up, also, the lost bonbon : 
it was put into Lady Catharine’s hand, but she scarcely looked 
at it ; the papers were all, that she, at the moment, cared for ; 
and finding that they proved to be the same for which she had 
been seeking, she carried them to her room. As she placed them 
on the table, however, the bonbon caught her eye : she supposed 
that it must have been a stray one from those which she had 
put away ; but no : she was certain the butler had given it to 
her with the papers — he had found it behind the bureau — and 
how did it come there ? Alice ! was it possible ? could Alice 
really have been so disobedient, so forgetful of all the kindness 
which had been shown her, as to break the only command upon 
which Lady Catharine had strongly insisted? But the bonbons 
were Madeline Clifford’s ; Alice had said so ; and Lady 
Catharine felt relieved, for her mind was immovably fixed to 
keep to her determination ; and if Alice proved deceitful, to 
send her from the Manor. When Lady Catharine made 
the resolution, she had not known how hard it would be 
to keep it ; she had cared but little for Alice, except 
for her mother’s sake, but now the thought of parting from her 
was cause of the deepest sorrow ; and yet she did not for an 
instant think of changing her mind. What she had once settled 
upon, she was certain, as far as any human being can be certain, 
to carry into effect. The papers were put away as things of no 
consequence ; the bell was rung, and Alice was summoned to 
Lady Catharine’s presence. The message was taken by the 
housemaid ; and when she delivered it, she added, with a laugh 
— ‘ There is something in store for you, Miss Alice, I ’ll be 
bound ; my lady looks as black as thunder.’ 


96 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


Alice’s face became deadly pale. ‘ O Anne ! ’ she exclaimed, 
‘ you have not told ? ’ 

* No, no, Miss Alice, never fear me — I ’m quite safe ; but my 
lady has found out something, that ’s certain.’ 

‘ How ! she can’t — it is impossible. Madeline never would 
tell, and no one else knows,’ said Alice, feeling at the same tirne 
very distrustful. 

‘ If she has,’ continued Anne, ‘ you’ve nothing to do but to 
face it out ; it will be only her word against yours.’ 

Alice looked excessively shocked. ‘ How wicked ! how 
dreadful ! ’ she exclaimed ; ‘ Anne, how very naughty of you to 
think of such a thing ! and I should get Madeline into such 
disgrace.’ 

‘ Well, that ’s as you think,’ continued Anne ; ‘ but there 
couldn’t be much disgrace for little Miss Clifford, because she 
wasn’t told like you, and her papa and mamma never scold her 
a bit ; they arn’t at all like my lady ; but there ’s the bell again : 
you must go.’ 

‘ And you won’t tell — you are sure you won’t tell ; you will 
be a good, kind Anne,’ said Alice, hesitating. 

‘ Trust me ; but if I were you I should get out of it somehow, 
and Miss Madeline ’s so good-natured she won’t care what you 
say.’ 

‘ Don’t you really think it would signify.? but it would be very 
wrong ; ’ and Alice held the handle of the door, unwilling to 
open it. 

‘ As to its signifying, I am sure it won’t ; but it ’s no good 
staying here to think.’ This Alice herself knew quite well ; 
and, making a sudden effort, she ran out of the room. Her 
knock at Lady Catharine’s door was not very loud, and the 
voice which bade her come in did not tend to make her less 
frightened. 

Lady Catharine was seated with her head leaning upon one 
hand, whilst the other held the lost bonbon. She looked pale, 
and there was a dark colour round her eyes, and a pressure of 
her lips, which told that her mind was unusually disturbed. 
Alice stood before her without daring to speak, and Lady 
Catharine looked at her as if she would have discovered the 
truth from her countenance. There was a pause for some 
instants, and then Lady Catharine, without any preparation, 
placed the bonbon before Alice, and said, ‘ I have found this : 
tell me where ? ’ 

Alice raised her eyes, which she had fixed upon the ground 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


97 


She looked first at the bonbon, then at Lady Catharine ; her 
only hope of escape was in evasion : ‘ The bonbons were 
Madeline Clifford’s,^ she said, rejoicing at having avoided an 
actual falsehood. 

‘ I know it,’ continued Lady Catharine, in the same voice ; 
* my question was not to whom it belonged, but where it was 
found.’ 

‘ It must have dropped in the passage,’ replied Alice, sum- 
moning courage to reply more boldly. 

‘ And in what passage ? Where were you playing ? ’ 

‘ In the gallery, by the window-seat.’ 

Lady Catharine thought a little, and then went on : ‘ Was 
the door into the east room open at the time.?’ 

‘ Yes — no — no — yes ; I can’t remember,’ stammered Alice, 
for she could not perceive at the instant whether it would be 
better for her to tell the truth or not. 

‘ You can’t remember .? then you have no idea how this bon- 
bon was lost under the large bureau ?’ 

Alice quailed under Lady Catharine’s eye, but a second time 
she evaded the question : ‘ Madeline was playing with them,’ 
she said. 

^And Madeline went into the passage,’ continued Lady 
Catharine, in a softened tone ; ‘ was it so, Alice .? do not be 
afraid to tell me.’ 

But Alice was afraid. Even after her first falsehood, in 
saying that the bonbons were Madeline’s, she scrupled to be 
guilty of a second. Lady Catharine rose, and drawing up her 
stately figure to its full height, she folded her hands, and 
waited patiently for an answer. Alice’s heart beat so that she 
could hear it ; she tried to say something, but it was impossible ; 
till at length, bursting into tears, she exclaimed, ‘ Indeed, I 
cannot tell.’ 

Lady Catharine made no attempt to stop her tears, but again 
repeated the question : ‘Was it so.?’ Still Alice only cried; 
and Lady Catharine, convinced by her distress of the truth of 
her suspicions, said, in a faint, yet bitter voice, ‘ Alice, it was 
my only command, and you have disobeyed it.’ 

‘ No, no !’ exclaimed Alice, urged at length by fear to do 
what under different circumstances she would have shrunk from, 

‘ it was not me — Madeline had them.’ 

‘ Are you sure — quite sure ? — remember, Alice, there is no- 
thing so dreadful as falsehood !’ But Alice had committed the 

G 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


98 

sin, and there was now but little difficulty in persisting in it 
With a firmer voice than before she repeated her assertion, 
adding, that she hoped Lady Catharine would not be angry 
with Madeline. Lady Catharine, however, was very distrust- 
ful ; it did not seem natural that Alice should feel so much, if 
she had done nothing wrong, and she determined to sift the 
matter to the bottom. She placed herself at her writing-desk, 
and wrote a few lines to Mr Clifford, begging him to come to 
her instantly ; and then saying, ‘ The truth must be discovered 
by some means, Alice,’ she went out of the room ; the door 
was locked on the outside, and Alice was left to her own 
thoughts. And they were far from agreeable. The first step 
in sin, the indulgence of an idle wish, had led her into the un- 
truth, which she had told on the previous week, and now it was 
dragging her on in many others : she had wilfully departed 
from the safe path — who could tell where she might now be 
led.? She cried bitterly, and from the bottom of her heart 
wished that she had never been tempted to do wrong. But 
Alice’s sorrow was not the true Christian sorrow, which God 
accepts for the sake of Jesus Christ. It did not lead her to 
confess her faults, and submit without murmuring to whatever 
punishment might be inflicted upon her — rather, it made her 
the more determined to conceal what she had done, at any risk. 
She felt certain that no one would be very angr)’- with Madeline, 
and she did not know what might be the consequences to her- 
self. This at least was the way in which she argued ; for, 
being really good-natured, she would not willingly have done 
anything which could have brought another person into diffi- 
culty. 

The minutes seemed long before any one came to interrupt 
her ; and the clouds, which were gathering quickly over the 
sky, made the hour appear later than it really was. Alice be- 
gan to be afraid lest Lady Catharine intended to lock her up 
for the night. Presently she heard footsteps along the passage 
— slow, heavy ones — not at all like Lady Catharine’s ; then 
there were voices, but she could not discover what was said ; 
and immediately afterwards the key turned in the door, and 
Lady Catharine entered, followed by Mr Clifford. Alice thought 
she must have sunk upon the floor ; of all persons, the one 
whom she most dreaded to see, the one in whose presence she 
felt the greatest awe, was Mr Clifford. 

‘We are come to hear your story again, Alice,’ said Lady 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


99 


Catharine, advancing towards her ; ‘ repeat to INIr Clifford what 
you have said to me.’ Alice could remember nothing ; her 
head seemed turning round, and her mind was confused. ‘ Per- 
haps,’ said Mr Clifford, kindly, yet very gravely, ‘ Lady Catha- 
rine will allow me to ask one or two questions myself. You 
know, Alice, I must be anxious and sorry, when I think that 
Madeline has been doing wrong.’ Alice was comforted by Mr 
Clifford’s manner, for he did not appear to suspect her of un- 
truth. ‘ Was it the last time Madeline was here that she brought 
the bonbons?’ continued ]\Ir Clifford. 

Alice answered, ‘ Yes.’ 

‘And you had never seen them before?’ 

‘ N o, never.’ Alice answered at random, for she had no 
time for thought. 

‘And you did not take any yourself? are you not fond of 
them?’ 

‘ Yes — a little — sometimes ; I don’t much care.’ 

‘ But what was the reason of your not taking them?’ 

‘ I don’t know : Lady Catharine does not like me to have 
them.’ 

As Alice said this, a smile of pleasure stole over Lady Catha- 
rine’s face, but Mr Clifford looked gravei than before : ‘ And as 
Madeline was playing wuth the bonbons, one rolled into the 
passage, and she went in to fetch it — was that it?’ Alice made 
no answer. ‘ Or,’ continued Mr Clifford, in a tone so very 
quiet, and yet so severe, that Alice trembled, ‘ was it that Ma- 
deline and you had made an agreement to exchange the bonbons 
for some ribbons ? that the bonbons were yours, not hers ? that 
you took them, though you knew Lady Catharine would be 
displeased? that it was you who were playing with them, and 
that it was you who went after them?’ There was a dead 
silence. The muscles in Lady Catharine’s throat were working 
with agitation, and she passed her hand across her eyes to brush 
away a tear. Mr Clifford’s countenance was perfectly still, but 
his eyes were fixed upon Alice. ‘ Your ladyship must be the 
judge,’ he said at length, turning to Lady Catharine ; ‘ I have 
already heard some of this story before from Madeline : her 
version is very different from Alice’s, and I have never yet dis- 
covered her in telling an untruth.’ 

‘ Madeline is cross — she is unkind — ^very unkind,’ exclaimed 
Alice ; ‘ I never do such things to her.’ 

‘ Hush ! Alice,’ and Lady Catharine held up her finger to en- 


lOO 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


force her words, ‘ we will have no complaints. One of yo\i is 
wrong, worse than wrong — wicked. God knows, though v/e 
do not.^ 

‘ I will bring Madeline here, if you wish it,^ said Mr Clifford, 
perceiving that Lady Catharine was not inclined to believe in 
Alice’s guilt ; ‘ perhaps when they are together it will be easier 
to discover the true state of the case.’ 

‘ I would rather ’ — Lady Catharine paused, doubting whether 
Mr Clifford would like the offer. ‘ I should judge, I think, 
better — if you did not care — if I were to go to her.’ 

Mr Clifford looked rather surprised, but Lady Catharine’s 
evident distress was not to be reasoned against. It was no 
light matter to her, if Alice should prove guilty. ‘ I am afraid 
the storm will be increasing,’ said Mr Clifford ; but Lady 
Catharine was in no mood to think of or care for storms. She 
would not delay — she would not even hear of the carriage being 
ordered — but after one look at Alice of sorrow, yet of deep af- 
fection, she went to prepare for her walk to the Parsonage, and 
in a few minutes Alice was again left alone. This time she 
was free. No doors were locked ; she might wander wherever 
she chose ; but where could she go, and what could she do ? 
who could help her in her difficulty ? who could recall her sinful 
words ? That which has been done cannot be undone : w’e 
may repent, and God may forgive, but when we have once 
committed an evil deed, or spoken an evil word, or thought an 
evil thought, it must remain recorded in the awful book of re- 
membrance, to be a witness against us on the day when w’e 
stand before the judgment-seat of the Almighty to answer for 
our lives upon earth. Alice Lennox could never again be as 
she had been before. She had ‘ let her mouth speak wicked- 
ness, and with her tongue she had set forth deceit ; ’ and now, 
to save herself from punishment, she was about to ‘ sit and 
speak’ against her friend — to slander her playfellow and com- 
panion. When Alice wished for the bonbons, how little did 
she imagine into what guilt she should be led ! But she was 
not then sensible of her grievous fault ; she considered only the 
chance of escape from punishment ; for her heart had become 
more hardened, and even Lady Catharine’s look of sadness had 
made no impression upon her. Still less was she inclined to 
have compassion upon Madeline, or to consider the distress it 
would occasion her to have her word doubted ; it was not a 
moment for thinking upon any one but herself. She hid her 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


101 


face against the wall, whilst a crowd of confused thoughts passed 
through her mind. Presently, there was a slight noise at the 
door, and some one touched the handle, but Alice did not look 
up ; it was then softly turned, and two persons stole very gently 
into the room. ‘ This is my lady’s own room,’ said the one who 
came in first. 

‘ Ah ! very beautiful ! to be sure — but, dear me ! ’ and at 
Benson’s voice, Alice started up, and almost screamed. 

‘ Miss Alice ! La ! but 1 thought you were out with my 
lady,’ exclaimed Anne ; ‘ and the storm, did you ever hear 
anything like it.^ she won’t be back for this hour, that ’s certain.’ 

The presence of Benson, and the assurance of Lady Catha- 
rine’s absence, gave a little comfort to Alice’s spirit ; but it was 
soon gone. She had not time to ask how Benson came there, 
or why she had ventured into the house, before Anne poured 
forth a torrent of questions : ‘ what had been the matter ? why 
was she left alone ? what had she been crying for ? had my 

lady been very angry ? did she know about ’ and Anne 

shook her head, and pointed to the passage. Alice had no 
heart to answer : she felt as if Anne had led her into mischief 
by suggesting the second falsehood which she had told, and she 
only longed for her to be gone. But Anne was not inclined to 
go, and neither was Benson. They stood by her, and petted 
her, and said a great many foolish and wrong things about 
Lady Catharine’s cruelty and whims, till at length Alice began 
to think that perhaps after all she had been treated hardly, and 
then, in her turn, she recounted all that had taken place. 

‘ Well, to be sure !’ exclaimed Benson, when she had finished; 

‘ ’twas fortunate enough that I chanced to come this evening. 
To think of your being left all alone, and treated so bad ; and 
I never should have found out a word about it, if it hadn’t been 
for Marsham’s mother being ill, and she away, and cook gone 
out for an hour ; and so, you see, we had the coast clear all to 
ourselves, and I thought if I could just keep out of my lady’s 
sight, I might manage to see you, my pretty dear, and the 
house too. But ’tis a real blessing that my lady ’s gone, and 
the thunder will be positive to hold her where she is. So, now 
cheer up. Miss Alice, and tell us what we can do.’ 

‘ I can tell what’s to be done,’ exclaimed Anne ; ^ there is no 
one knows better than me how to get out of a harl. If I just 
keep the same story as Miss Alice, there’ll be two to one; 
and who ’s to go against us then .?’ 


102 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


Alice could not feel thankful : she felt her selfishness, yet 
she could not bring herself to put a stop at once to such a plan. 
‘ Ah ! yes, that ’s just right, anything to serve a friend,’ said 
Benson ; ‘ nobody knows, and nobody will tell, and ’twill all 
do very well ; though I can’t, for the life of me, think why you 
should care for the notion of being sent to school. If ’twasn’t 
just for me, you’d be buried alive like here.’ 

‘ It ’s not about school altogether,’ said Alice, ‘ but Lady 
Catharine looks so’ 

‘ Well, so she does ! she looks as if she could cut one’s head 
off; not a bit like your poor dear mamma, she was an angel ; 
but there, we won’t talk of her,’ continued Benson, seeing that 
Alice’s eyes were dimmed with tears. Alice, however, was not 
crying for the reason which Benson imagined ; it was not so 
much the remembrance of Lady Catharine’s harshness, or her 
mamma’s affection, which had touched her heart, as the thought 
of her own wickedness, and the difference between her past 
conduct and the advice which had frequently been given her. 
She felt, in truth, that if her mamma could know all she had 
been doing, her sorrow would be very great ; and the convic- 
tion crossed her mind that none could enter the state of happi- 
ness, in which she believed her mamma now to be, except those 
who lived a life of holiness, and it was the last prayer she had 
heard from her mother’s lips, that God would grant her the un- 
speakable blessing of meeting her child again, when the trial of 
her life should be over. Benson was sorry that she had said 
anything to make Alice more unhappy, and now again began to 
cheer her by assuring her that Anne would be her friend, and that 
two to one against Miss Madeline would be sure to beat. Anne 
also repeated the same thing, but she was tired of trying to give 
comfort ; and as the time was passing on, she begged Benson 
to go with her over the other rooms, that she might see them 
before Lady Catharine came back. Benson consented, and 
was leaving the room, when a sudden fancy struck Anne, 
and she stopped: ‘ To be sure!’ she exclaimed; ‘ I never 
thought of it ; there couldn’t be a better opportunity ; just the 
very thing. I say. Miss Alice, my dear, where does Marsham 
keep the key ? you know what I mean : ’ and Anne nodded and 
winked. 

^ I don’t know. What key do you mean.? Marsham has a 
great many,’ said Alice. 

‘ Ay, but the key of the rooms : they are shut up to-day : 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


103 

they always are M'hen Marsham isn’t here, and I should so like 
cousin Benson to see them. 

‘ That ’s a good notion,’ exclaimed Benson ; ’ Mt would just 
pass away the time, and keep me from thinking about the 
thunder. What a storm there is ! I declare if it doesn’t turn 
my heart upside down.’ 

* But, Anne, indeed you must not. Lady Catharine will be 
excessively angry,’ said Alice. Anne laughed. 

‘ As for that, she ’s had plenty of causes to be angry before 
now. What a goose, to think I should have lived so long in 
the house, and up early and late, and never done more than 
peep in at that door when half the times it was open : no, no, 
if my lady wants to keep it all quiet, she had better lock it up, 
and keep the key herself. So now tell me, Miss Alice, dear, 
where ’s the key ? I’ll be bound you know.’ 

Alice again protested, and Anne looked impatient and 
threatening ; at that instant a vivid flash of lightning illumin- 
ated the room, followed instantly by a roll of thunder. 

< It ’s quite dangerous, I declare,’ exclaimed Benson, turning 
pale ; ‘ they say it ’s always worse when the thunder comes so 
soon.’ 

‘ It ’s setting in this way,’ said Anne ; ‘ if we were wise, and 
went to the other side, there wouldn’t be a bit of fear. Come, 
Miss Alice, come, it won’t do to stop here.’ 

‘ But Lady Catharine ’ — began Alice. 

* Nonsense ! Lady Catharine ! What should I care for 
her ? I’m going away.’ 

‘ But I can’t, indeed I can’t,’ continued Alice. 

‘ Then I can’t, indeed I can’t,’ repeated Anne, contemptuously. 
‘ If you can’t for me, I can’t for you, and what ’s to be done 
then?’ 

Here Benson stepped forward, and began to entreat in more 
gentle terms. ‘ She was sure her own dear Alice would be 
good-natured ; it was such a little thing, and they had done so 
much for her, and Anne would be certain to keep her own 
counsel, and never to tell tales upon her.’ 

‘ Ah, yes ! ’ said Anne, angrily ; ^ and if I don’t keep my 
own counsel now, I know who ’ll come badly off.’ 

* But what shall I do ? I can’t be left — I can’t stay here,’ 
replied Alice, as she gazed at the lowering sky, and hid her face 
when the lightning broke through the gloom. 

* No, that you can’t,’ said Anne ; ‘ at least if you do, I ’m 


104 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


sure I shall not ; ’ tis a storm not fit for a dog to look at, and 
Pm going.’ She moved to the door, but no one followed. 

‘ Come, there ’s a dear,’ said Benson, coaxingly, taking 
Alice’s hand. ‘ My lady will be back when it leaves off, and I 
never shall have such an opportunity again. You know Anne 
says we shall be quite safe there — and what’s the harm of going 
into a room 1 It ’s only my lady’s whim.’ 

‘ But you won’t leave me,’ cried Alice, imploringly. 

‘ No, certainly not ; you come too — the more the merrier,’ 
said Anne ; who, notwithstanding her boasting, had always had 
a superstitious dread of the shut-up rooms. ‘ We can be out 
the moment it begins to clear,’ she continued ; ‘ my lady need 
never know a bit about it ; and when she comes home, I ’ll say 
anything you like, and get you out of your scrape, and then 
you’ll be quite happy.’ 

‘ Besides,’ persisted Benson, ‘ it isn’t anything for ymu ; you’ve 
been in once, so the mischief’s done.’ 

Anne’s sharp eye saw signs of yielding, for Alice gazed wist- 
fully at the window ; but the storm still raged violently. To be 
left alone with the lightning and the thunder — and alone with 
an evil conscience, seemed more terrible than any other punish- 
ment. 

‘ The key is in Marsham’s room, isn’t it ?’ said Anne. Alice 
nodded an assent. ‘ With the large bunch ? ’ 

‘ No.’ Alice was so nervous that she could scarcely speak 
the word. 

‘ Well ! where ? where ? — make haste,’ said Anne. 

‘ In the — in the — the left-hand drawer of the large chest.’ 

Anne scarcely waited for the last word before she was gone 
to fetch it ; and a minute aftei-wards she returned, holding it 
triumphantly in her hand. ‘ Come along, come ; we’ve no time 
to lose.’ She led the way, and Benson and Alice followed. 


CHAPTER XII. 

W HEN Madeline Clifford was left by her sister in the study, 
her inclination was to go after her. She was thoroughly 
frightened by the storm, and she had no power to reason ; and 
only the recollection of Mr Clifford’s commands induced her to 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


105 


remain for an instant in the room alone. Madeline, however, 
had never been suffered to disobey in the least particular ; and 
she had been made so unhappy by her late fault, that the dread 
of her father’s displeasure was at first greater even than her 
teiTor at the thunder and lightning. She stood at the door, and 
listened to Ruth’s footsteps, and caught a few words of the con- 
versation between her and Martha ; till at last, just as the 
loudest clap of all burst over head, she heard Martha’s speech 
about the cellar, and in sudden alarm, forgetful of all her former 
anxiety to obey her papa’s wishes, she ran towards it. The 
door opened not far from the study ; and before Ruth entered 
the room to tell of the terrible accident which had befallen old 
Roger, Madeline was safe at the bottom of the cellar stairs, 
hiding herself among some wood and coals which were kept in 
a dark hole at the entrance. 

It was no wonder that Ruth was puzzled to know what was 
become of her. Few persons would have thought of looking 
for her in such a place ; and there had been scarcely time to 
determine what was to be done, when Mr Clifford appeared, and 
Lady Catharine Hyde with him. The serv-^ants eagerly told 
their story, and Ruth stood by without speaking ; but Mr Clif- 
ford was not a person easily to be frightened ; he had no 
doubt that Madeline would soon be found, but he was distressed 
at her attempting to conceal herself. It seemed to show that 
she was conscious of greater guilt than she had confessed ; and 
his heart sank as he thought that, after all, Alice might have 
spoken the truth, and his own child, whom he had entirely 
trusted, might have deceived him. ‘ Leave it to me,’ he re- 
plied, calmly, when he had heard all that was to be said ; ‘ no 
one need be alarmed ; Madeline is far too great a coward to 
venture out of doors ; and if I call her, she will come directly.’ 

Lady Catharine seated herself in the arm-chair with a coun- 
tenance of determined patience, and Mr Clifford began his 
search. For a little while it was unsuccessful, and he began to 
be slightly uneasy ; but the truth was soon guessed, when he 
observed that the door leading down the cellar stairs was open. 
He gently called Madeline ; but receiving no answer, he went 
down a few steps, and again repeated her name. A timid voice 
answered, ‘ Papa ! ’ and Madeline, with a very white face, but a 
dress covered with coal-dust, appeared. ‘ It was the thunder, 
papa,’ she said, before Mr Clifford attempted to make any 
inquiries. 


io6 LANE TON PARSONAGE. 

* I hope it was, Madeline,^ was the reply ; * * but I shall know 
more about this presently ; Lady Catharine Hyde is here/ 

‘ Must I see her and Madeline looked very much dismayed ; 
* my frock is so dirty/ 

‘ It must not be changed, though ; she is waiting to speak to 
you/ 

Madeline could do nothing but obey ; and Mr Clifford 
opened the study door, and ushered her into the awful presence 
of Lady Catharine Hyde. Madeline glanced around for Ruth 
as the only hope of comfort ; but her father had signed to her 
to leave the room, and poor Ruth, feeling certain that some- 
thing dreadful was going to happen, ran off to watch from the 
drawing-room window for her mamma’s return, which, as the 
storm was rather going off, would not, she thought, be long 
delayed. 

Lady Catharine Hyde had by nature a great dislike to all 
mysteries, and never could consent to gain her object by any 
but the most direct means. She had no idea of questioning 
Madeline so as to find out the truth by degrees ; but, acting by 
her as she had done by Alice, she drew forth the bonbon from 
her reticule, and, holding it up, said, * This is yours ; I am 
come to return it to you.’ 

‘No, it is not ; it was — it is not mine now,’ stammered 
Madeline : and the crimson colour spread itself over her face 
and neck. 

‘No equivocation, Madeline,’ said Lady Catharine, in a re- 
proachful tone, whilst Mr Clifford’s countenance showed his 
distress ; ‘ is it yours, or is it not ?’ 

‘ It is not mine,’ replied Madeline, growing bolder ; ‘ I gave 
it to Alice.’ 

Lady Catharine coughed drily. ‘You do not know, then, 
where it was lost 

‘ Speak, Madeline !’ said Mr Clifford ; ‘ tell at once all that 
you can.’ 

‘ I have told you, papa,’ replied Madeline, sobbing ; for she 
dreaded to be obliged to repeat the story again. 

‘ That will not do ; I must hear from your own lips,’ con- 
tinued Lady Catharine. ‘ I am afraid, very much afraid, that 
you have been a most wicked child.’ 

‘ I am very sorry,’ began Madeline, in a broken voice ; but 
her papa interrupted her. 

‘True sorrow, Madeline, is sho\vn in something more than 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


107 


words. If you have spoke an untruth, and have laid blame on 
Alice which should have been yours, the least you can do is to 
own it.' 

‘ Me ! me, papa ! ' exclaimed Madeline, raising her head in 
amazement. 

* Yes, you ! ' continued Lady Catharine : * you were aware, as 
well as Alice, of my orders against any person's going into the 
east rooms at the Manor; and you chose to disobey; and then, 
when you had disobeyed, you tried to make your papa believe 
that it was Alice, and pretended to confess, as if you were un- 
happy about it. O Madeline ! I could not have supposed a 
little girl would have been so wicked.' Madeline looked at her 
papa, but said nothing. She was confounded by the accusation, 
and could not comprehend who had ventured to make it ; and 
she expected him to undertake her defence. Having acknow- 
ledged the truth, she imagined, as a matter of course, that he 
would uphold her. ‘ I was right, you see,' said Lady Catharine, 
turning to Mr Clifford. * When the facts are put before her, 
she has no excuse to make. I am grieved, very grieved for 
you.' 

‘ But,' exclaimed Madeline, recovering from her first surprise, 
and speaking in great agitation, ‘ it was not me ! it was Alice : 
I said so ; papa knows it, and Ruth too ; I told them both. 
Alice went in, and I waited for her till mamma called : and the 
bonbons were not mine ; I gave them all to Alice for the green 
and white sashes.' 

Lady Catharine coughed again. ‘ I don't see how the truth 
is to be determined,' she said. ^ It is only one child’s word 
against another's ; and we are both naturally inclined to believe 
as we wish.' 

^ I own I am very much inclined in this case,' said Mr 
Clifford, mildly. ‘ Madeline, you have never, that I know, 
told me a falsehood before ; but your story is very different from 
Alice's. She says that the bonbons were yours, and that you 
lost this one, and went in after it.' 

‘ Alice is I don't love Alice, she tells lies ! ' exclaimed 

Madeline, in extreme indignation : ‘ I don't want ever to play 
with her again.' 

‘Hush! hush!' said her papa, putting his hand upon her 
mouth : ‘ whatever Alice may have done, you have been very 
naughty yourself. The giving the bonbons and taking the 
sashes, was what you knew your mamma and Lady Catharine 


lo8 LANETON PARSONAGE. 

would disapprove ; and that was the beginning of all this mis- 
chief.’ 

‘ Yes,’ observ’ed Lady Catharine ; ‘ and a little girl who could 
do that, could do anything.’ 

‘ It was a mutual fault,’ quietly observed Mr Clifford ; *they 
were both equally to blame.’ 

Lady Catharine was vexed. * I see, Mr Clifford,’ she said, 
rising proudly from her seat, ‘ that your affection is too great for 
your judgment : perhaps I had better retum, and leave you to 
consider the matter more at your leisure. For myself, I can 
put but little faith in the word of a child who has evidently 
shown herself confused and uncertain in all that she has said, 
and who was so alarmed at my appearance that she ran away 
to hide herself.’ 

‘No, it was not to hide ! it was the thunder ! I did not care 
a bit about you ; I only cared for the thunder ! ’ exclaimed 
Madeline, vehemently ; and, in her desire to prove her inno- 
cence, forgetting the awe which she had hitherto felt. 

‘ Possibly,’ said Lady Catharine, in a tone which showed that 
she did not believe it. ‘ But what is to be done, Mr Clifford ? — 
what would you advise ? Shall I return, and leave you to exa- 
mine your little girl alone, till you are as convinced as I am of 
the true state of the case.?’ 

‘ Your ladyship will pardon me, I hope,’ replied Mr Clifford; 
‘ I do not believe that any examination is likely to convince me; 
and there is one thing you have forgotten — Madeline says that 
she gave the bonbons in exchange for some sashes. These 
sashes she has now ; she can bring them to you if you like it. 
So far there is evidence that her word is true.’ 

‘ Yes, very probably it may be ; but that does not alter the 
case. I care nothing about the bonbons, they are not worth 
thinking of ; all that I wish to know is, who went into the east 
rooms, and of that there is not the shadow of doubt.’ Lady 
Catharine spoke positively, as persons very often do when, 
without being aware of it, they begin to waver. ‘ My mind is 
relieved,’ she continued, taking up her reticule ; ‘ I shall return 
much easier than I came ; the storm I think will soon be over, 
and Alice will be impatient.’ 

Mr Clifford felt very much annoyed ; he had never before 
seen so full an evidence of the strength of Lady Catharine’s 
prejudices. ‘ Excuse me,’ he said, ‘ we cannot part in this way. 
Your ladyship’s mind may be relieved, but mine is not ; for my 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


109 


own happiness, and for the sake of my child, T must beg to go 
back with you to the Manor, and take Madeline with me 
when we have examined her with Alice, we shall be far better 
able to judge what is the truth. If you will allow me I will 
speak a few words to Mrs Clifford, who, I think, must be re- 
turned, and then I shall be ready to attend you.^ 

Mr Clifford’s manner was so decided, that even Lady Catha- 
rine was a little struck by it. He left the room, and Madeline 
remained alone with her. No word was spoken. Madeline 
pulled the strings of her bonnet, and Lady Catharine patted her 
umbrella on the floor, and coughed several times. The five 
minutes were the longest that Madeline had ever spent — it 
seemed as if they never would end ; but they did end at last. 
Mr Clifford returned, and Madeline was sent up-stairs to put on 
a clean frock. In the passage she met her mamma and Ruth. 
Both looked at her very sadly, and Madeline saw that Ruth 
had been crying ; and then her heart smote her for all the 
trouble and anxiety she had caused. In her indignation at 
being falsely accused she had forgotten that any blame could 
attach to her for her own faults. Ruth turned away ; but Mrs 
Clifford went with her to her room, took out her dress, and 
fastened it, but still did not speak ; and this silence touched 
Madeline’s heart more than any words. If her mamma, who 
was always so gentle, and ready to excuse, and unwilling to 
believe that any one had done wrong, was thus altered in her 
manner, she was sure that the pain she had occasioned must 
be very great. Lady Catharine was standing by the door when 
Madeline re-entered the study, and Mr Clifford was by her side, 
his hat in his hand. Both were impatient to go, and the 
quarter of a mile between the Parsonage and the Manor was 
quickly passed. The storm was dying away. Dark masses 
of the thunder-clouds were heaped together, leaving glimpses 
of the blue sky, across which there flitted occasionally a light, 
fleecy, golden vapour, tinged by the brightness of the setting 
sun. Still, however, some remains of its fury were heard, in 
the heavy rumbling sound which murmured in the distance — 
and at any other time Madeline might have felt timid at ven- 
turing out of the house until it had entirely subsided, but all 
her thoughts were now engaged in anger against Alice, and 
dread of Lady Catharine. The house seemed even more than 
usually silent when they entered it ; and Lady Catharine, wish- 
ing to speak a few words with Alice alone, begged Mr Clifford 


I 10 


LANETON PARSONAGE 


to stay in the drawing-room with Madeline, whilst she wen» 
up-stairs. Her footsteps were scarcely heard as she passed 
along the open gallery, treading the soft velvet carpet with 
which it was covered ; and with some curiosity to know how 
Alice had borne her absence, she noiselessly opened the door of 
her own apartment — but it was empty. Lady Catharine was 
surprised, yet she did not suspect anything amiss, and remem- 
bering that she had given no orders to Alice, she imagined that 
she would be found in the school-room. Again she was mis- 
taken ; there were the lesson-books, open on the table, and a 
work-box, and writing-desk, and a story-book, which Alice had 
been reading just before Lady Catharine sent for her, but she 
herself was not there. Lady Catharine called, ^ Alice,' but her 
voice sounded hollow and lonely in the stillness of the house. 
A foreboding of evil came over her, she could scarcely tell 
why. There was nothing really unnatural in Alice’s being 
away ; yet Lady Catharine again repeated her name hastily, 
looking round at the same time to see if she were near. She 
went into the passage, and stood by the window with the raised 
steps, the same at which Alice had played, and began to think 
where it was most probable to find her. Marsham’s absence 
did not occur to her, and she supposed that Alice might be 
with her. Nothing was easier to ring the bell and inquire. 
But no, that could not be ; Marsham was gone ; so she 
directly afterwards remembered. Yet she certainly thought 
that she had seen the entrance to the east rooms unclosed, and 
that never was the case unless Marsham was at home. Lady 
Catharine's foreboding of something wrong became painfully 
strong; she moved a few steps forward; the door was a-jar, the 
key was in the lock, and as she fixed her eye upon it, a miserable 
distrust of Alice crossed her mind. With a stealthy step she 
entered the passage, listened, and heard nothing. She walked 
on, but the desolate chambers looked lonely and deserted, even as 
they had ever been since the death of Mr Hyde. Yet, as Lady 
Catharine paused before the desk, on which lay an unfinished 
letter, the last her husband had commenced, and gave way for an 
instant to the affectionate regrets which the sight of all things 
connected with him never failed to produce, she heard, or fancied 
she heard, a muttering of voices in the adjoining apartment. A 
moment’s attention convinced her that her suspicions were correct. 
Some one was there, certainly ; and Lady Catharine became 
motionless with indignation. It was her husband’s study, a place 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


1 1 1 


which, of all others, she had wished to guard as sacred. Yet 
it was plain, from the sounds, that not only had some persons 
intruded into it, but that they were actually employed in open- 
ing the drawers, and examining the contents. Lady Catharine 
recognised a careless, vulgar laugh. It was Anne’s ; and she 
breathed more freely, hoping that Alice might not be there. 
But the hope soon vanished. ‘ Pray, take care,’ she heard in 
the well-known voice of the child she loved so well ; ‘ Benson, 
do make Anne take care, indeed she will let it down.’ Lady 
Catharine stood riveted to the spot. There was, seemingly, a 
little contention as to who should gain possession of some dis- 
puted article. Quick, sharp words were heard, and a scuffling 
of footsteps ; and directly afterwards, a loud exclamation 
escaped from all, and with a crash the ornament, or whatever 
it might be, fell to the ground. Lady Catharine advanced to 
the doorway. Alice, Benson, and Anne, were on their knees, 
gathering up the fragments of a small, but rare and beautiful, 
china vase — a vase which Lady Catharine had received as a 
present from Mr Hyde, and which had been put aside as too 
precious to be seen by common eyes. Alice was with her back 
to the door, and Benson and Anne were too much alarmed at 
the accident to notice anything but the broken china. ‘ Here’s 
a pretty mess ; what shall we do now ? ’ exclaimed Benson, as 
she looked at the jagged pieces, and saw that there was no 
possibility of repairing the mischief. 

‘ You just go back to my lady’s room, and keep her quiet, 
Miss Alice,’ said Anne, hurriedly. 

Alice rose, and remained standing in the middle of the room. 
She did not attempt to go, for she was overcome with alarm. 
There was a moment’s silence, whilst Benson and Anne searched 
carefully for the smaller fragments, and then a stern calm voice 
said, ‘ Alice ! ’ Alice started and screamed. Her eye glanced 
quickly round, and as it caught the tall dark figure of Lady 
Catharine, she fell back into a chair almost fainting. Benson 
and Anne rushed to the door, but there were no means of 
escape. Lady Catharine gazed on them with a countenance 
and manner, before which even a man’s spirit might have sunk. 

‘ You will leave my house,’ was all she said ; and Benson and 
her companion prepared mechanically to obey. Alice, every 
limb trembling with agitation, waited for the coming sentence ; 
but it was not given. For a few moments Lady Catharine 
stood, with a fixed, upbraiding eye ; and when Alice moved her 


I 12 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


lips, and raised her hand, as if begging for pardon, she said, 
with a voice of perfect composure, ‘Alice, I need no words,’ 
and led her from the room. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

M adeline Clifford returned to her home on that 
evening with very different feelings from those which 
she had experienced on leaving it : yet few would have envied 
her reflections. Lady Catharine had repaired to the drawing- 
room after receiving from Alice a full confession of her guilt, 
and had openly acknowledged Madeline’s innocence. She gave 
scarcely any explanations beyond the fact that Alice had owned 
her falsehood ; her agitation would not permit it ; but she 
allowed that she had been mistaken, and with the meekness of 
a burdened heart she entreated Mr Clifford to forgive her for 
having done injustice to his child, in suspecting her. Both 
Madeline and her papa were surprised, but it was not then the 
time to ask for information. Lady Catharine was evidently 
longing to be alone ; and Mr Clifford, without venturing to 
express the sympathy he really felt, took his leave. Madeline 
walked by her father’s side, silent and sorrowful : she felt re- 
lieved that the accusation had been proved to be untrue, and 
her anger against Alice was greatly lessened in consequence ; 
but how much was there still to grieve over ! She had given 
her parents reason to distrust her ; she had deceived and equi- 
vocated ; and but for her Alice might never have been brought 
into such sad disgrace. Madeline was unhappy, yet she could 
never know all the pain she had caused. 

Lady Catharine sat in her lonely room, and her thoughts 
turned sadly to the future. The voice that had cheered, the 
smile that had delighted her, could now awaken no feelings but 
those of regret. Alice had proved false, and her presence could 
only be painful. Silence and solitude must be her punishment 
now ; and when the necessary arrangements could be made, she 
must be removed to another and a stricter care. Such was Lady 
Catharine’s detennination ; and Alice, though she had not been 
told, had little doubt that it would be so. The few attempts 
which she had made to excuse herself during the short time 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


113 


which Lady Catharine remained with her had been instantly 
silenced ; her tears and prayers had been unheeded ; and when 
the door of her chamber was closed and locked, Alice, in despair, 
threw herself on her bed, and sobbed hysterically. The evening 
was rapidly closing in ; the sun had set, and the bright lights 
which had tinged the clouds were fast fading away. But Alice 
was too miserable to observe anything ; and it was not until 
the dusk had spread itself over the earth, and a few faint stars 
twinkled through the cloudy sky that she began to think of 
weariness, or conjecture whether she should see any one again 
that night. 

Two long hours passed by, still Alice was alone ; and this was 
no common suffering. Imprisonment was added to solitude : 
and imprisonment must in any case be a great trial. Yet there 
have been persons who have borne all the desolateness and pri- 
vations of a dungeon itself with peace, and even joy. We are 
told that Paul and Silas, who were amongst the first of those 
who were persecuted for their Saviour’s sake, being ‘ thrust into 
the inner prison,’ and having ‘ their feet fast in the stocks ; 
nevertheless, at midnight, ‘ prayed, and sang praises unto God.’ 
The prison was not like a prison to them ; it shut them out 
from the sight of their fellow-men, but it could not shut them 
out from God ; and to be with Him, to know that He was 
watching over them, and ordering every event for good, was a 
comfort which could make any affliction to be endured with 
thankfulness. 

God is, in truth, equally near to us all ; but when we are 
conscious of having broken His laws, and sinned against Him, 
the thought of this awful fact can but add to our misery. To 
be alone with Him, then, is to be in the presence of our Judge, 
^ who made the heavens by the breath of His mouth,’ and can 
in an instant destroy both body and soul in hell ; and until we 
have repented and prayed for forgiveness, for the sake of our 
blessed Saviour, we can but feel terror at the knowledge that He 
is looking upon us. Alice Lennox did not think of prayer ; 
she was wretched, but her spirit was proud ; and instead of re- 
pentance she felt anger. Lady Catharine seemed the most cruel 
of tyrants, her own lot the most miserable which any child could 
be called on to bear ; and when, as the clock struck nine. Mar- 
sham appeared with a candle, and an order that Miss Lennox 
should go to bed, Alice undressed herself, quickly repeated her 
prayers, as a matter of form, and lay down to sleep without any 


1 1 4 LANETON PARSONA GE. 

remembrance that she was at that moment under the wrath of 
God. 

When Madeline reached home she still thought much of 
Alice ; but Ruth, after she had heard what had passed, though! 
still more ; for Madeline had her own troubles to occupy her 
mind. There was something in the manner both of her papa 
and mamma which showed that they were dissatisfied with her. 

Mr Clifford took but little notice of what had occurred that 
evening, for Madeline looked pale, and complained of a bad 
headache ; he kissed her, though with a grave face, as she bade 
him good-night, and said, ‘ You are tired and unwell, I see, 
Madeline, but I hope you will not hurry into bed too fast. 
There are many things for you to remember, and ask God’s 
forgiveness for, even though you have not been so wicked as to 
tell a falsehood.’ 

Madeline coloured, and the tears stood in her eyes. * Are 
you angry with me, dear papa ? ’ she said. 

‘ Anger, perhaps, is not the proper word, my dear child. I 
am grieved, not angry ; your faults have been more against God 
than against me.’ 

‘ But Madeline was not so bad as Alice,’ said Ruth, in a 
coaxing tone. 

‘We must not compare, my love ; a little fault in a person 
who has been well taught is as bad as a great fault in a person 
who has had fewer adv^antages : and Madeline will not say that 
hers were little faults.’ 

Madeline burst into tears ; she had not before believed that 
her papa thought thus seriously of her conduct. At that mo- 
ment Mrs Clifford came into the room ; and being afraid that 
staying up longer might be bad for Madeline’s health, she urged 
her going to bed immediately. Madeline would willingly have 
remained to hear all that her papa had to say ; but Mrs Clif- 
ford was anxious when she saw her looking so different from 
usual ; and after another injunction not to forget the many 
faults which she had committed, Madeline went to her room. 
Ruth, however, lingered behind. She felt pleased, notwith- 
standing her regret that Madeline should be in disgrace. It 
seemed as if she had a greater claim than before to be petted ; 
and, as she drew her stool to her mamma’s work-table, 
she said, ‘ You are not angry with me, and you will let me 
stay .? ’ 

‘ We are not angry with Madeline,’ replied Mrs Clifford. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


115 

* No ; but you are not so — I mean — I think — it was not right 
in her to take those sashes/ 

^ Certainly it was not/ said Mr Clifford. ‘ I don’t think you 
r/ould have done it.’ 

Ruth’s countenance brightened. ‘ Then you are pleased with 
me, papa ?’ but Mr Clifford did not appear pleased ; he waited 
before replying, and then said ‘ It is your bed-time, Ruth ; 
nearly, at least. Suppose, instead of reading up-stairs, you were 
to read to your mamma and me here ; there would just be time 
before I begin my writing.’ Ruth noticed her papa’s manner, 
though she did not understand it : she brought her Bible, and 
inquired what she should read. ‘ It shall be my favourite 
chapter, if your mamma likes it also,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ the 
thirteenth chapter of St 'Paul’s first Epistle to the Corinthians.’ 
Ruth turned over the pages of her book, and began to read, 
but her thoughts were wandering. She spoke of the charity 
which ‘ suffereth long, and is kind ; ’ which ‘ envieth not,’ which 
‘ vaunteth not itself,’ which ‘ is not puffed up,’ which ‘ thinketh 
no evil,’ and ‘ rejoiceth not in iniquity ; ’ but at that very time 
she was comparing herself with her sister, and feeling glad at 
the events which had shown how much better she could behave 
than Madeline. The chapter was finished, and Ruth laid down 
the book. Mr Clifford opened it again. ‘ Yes,’ he said, re- 
peating the last words ; ‘ “ the greatest of these is charity.” 
Charity, or what, Ruth ? What is the other meaning of the 
word ?’ 

‘ Love, mamma says,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Even so — charity, or love, which makes us full of kind 
thoughts, and prevents us from envying other persons, or think- 
ing much of ourselves ; and which causes us to be sorry, instead 
of glad, when others do wrong. It would be very pleasant to 
have such a spirit of love or charity, don’t you think it would ?’ 

‘ Yes, very ; ’ replied Ruth, in a timid voice, for she was be- 
ginning to see that her papa had some particular meaning in 
what he said. 

‘ And if we find that we have not such a spirit, that we are 
apt to think much of ourselves, and are pleased at finding fault 
with our -companions — that, in fact, we do vaunt or boast, and 
are puffed up, and rejoice instead of grieving at their iniquity 
or sin, we ought to be very much shocked ; and should at once 
humbly ask God to forgive us as well as them, and to give us 
a better mind. Is not this so, Ruth .?’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


1 16 

V/hilst Mr Clifford spoke the colour, in Ruth’s cheek had 
been gradually rising, and, by the time he ended, her face and 
neck were crimson. ‘ You always know about me, papa,’ she said, 
as Mr Clifford looked at her kindly, yet requiring an answer. 

‘ I know about you, because I know what is natural to all 
persons, and what you especially have in your disposition — a 
love of exalting yourself in comparison with others — but, my 
darling, you must learn very differently before you can hope to 
act as becomes a baptized child of God,’ 

‘ I did not know that I exalted myself,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Most likely you did not. It is not the first time I have 
told you of a secret fault — but, Ruth, you shall answer me one 
question honestly ; do you think that it would please you to be 
told that the notion of Madeline’s having behaved ill was a 
mistake, that she had done just as well, perhaps better, than 
yourself.^’ 

‘ I — yes — I don’t know — I should be very glad,’ stammered 
Ruth. 

‘ Honestly — quite honestly,’ repeated Mr Clifford ; ‘ from your 
heart, can you indeed say it?’ Ruth was silent. ‘ If you can- 
not,’ continued her papa ; ^ you may be certain the reason is 
because you like being put first, and made the most of.’ 

‘ I should like Madeline to be good too,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes, you would like it, if it did not interfere with yourself ; 
but this is not the mind which God requires of us. It is not 
being humble like our Saviour ; He was grieved, not glad, that 
men were sinners.’ 

‘ But He was so good,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; our Lord was perfect, quite perfect ; but if we wish 
to live with Him, we must try to be like Him. Do you know 
the way to make yourself like Him ?’ 

‘ By praying to Him,’ was the reply. 

^ That is the first and best way ; but there are others which 
I should like you to remember. One is by thinking of Him.’ 

‘ But I can’t, papa,’ began Ruth, and then stopped. 

‘ Yet,’ said Mr Clifford, ‘ there was a promise made once 
that you should believe all that is told about our blessed Lord ; 
and if you do not think, it is impossible you should ever believe 
rightly.’ 

‘ No persons can make themselves think,’ persisted Ruth. 

* Not so, my love ; we all can, if we set about it in the 
proper way.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


117 

* I don’t know how, papa,’ said Ruth, in rather a mournful 
tone. 

Mt is difficult, I know, but we can try to fix our attention ; 
and if we are taught to repeat words, we can endeavour to 
understand what they mean : this you will own, I am sure.’ 

Ruth said ‘ Yes ; ’ but she did not appear to comprehend at 
all more than before. 

^ You remember, I daresay,’ continued Mr Clifford, ‘ how I 
have sometimes talked to you about the Lord’s Prayer, and told 
you that if you would try to repeat it carefully, from your heart, 
you would in time learn to pray rightly. Now there is some- 
thing else which we all say often, that would in the same manner 
teach us to think, if we would attend to it. What is it that we 
repeat in church which contains a short account of all which we 
ought to believe ? ’ 

‘ You mean the Creed, papa ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; and though it may seem very strange, I am quite sure 
that if we were frequently to say it, not as a lesson, but with 
thoughtfulness, it would go a great way towards making us every 
day become better.’ 

‘ And especially humble,’ said Mrs Clifford, as she looked up 
from her work, whilst a gentle, but rather a melancholy smile 
passed over her face. Ruth became very grave. 

‘ Are you too sleepy to listen to a little story, Ruth ? ’ said 
Mr Clifford ; ‘ perhaps I may be able to tell you one which will 
show you how it is possible to teach ourselves to think ; and if 
we do that, we can never be proud.’ Ruth’s eyes brightened at 
the proposal, and in a moment every feeling of fatigue was for- 
gotten. ‘ It will be a story of two children,’ continued Mr 
Clifford; ^ two little girls, like you and Madeline; but they 
were not blessed, as you are, with a happy home, for their 
mother was dead, and their father was living in a foreign land, 
and school was the only place to which they could be sent. 
Now these two little girls were alike in their faces and their 
voices, as you may be, but they were very different in their 
hearts ; the elder one, Mary, was very fond of her papa, and 
when first he went away she wished to please him, and tried to 
think of him ; but the younger one, Julia, cared only for herself 
and her playthings. A long, long time went by after the father 
had left them, and these little girls, from not having seen him, 
almost forgot what he was like, and they became so accustomed 
to school, that it was quite natural to them to be there ; it 


ii8 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


seemed their home. Their papa was not able to write to tliem 
often, and so, by degrees, even the good one, Mary, seldorh 
thought of him. But one day, when they were playing with 
their companions in the garden, they were told that a lady 
wished to speak to them — a friend of their papa’s who was just 
come from India. Mary was glad, and ran into the house 
quickly ; but Julia stayed behind, for she enjoyed a game of 
play much better than the idea of seeing a stranger. The lady 
was kind and winning in her manner, and after she had kissed 
Mary several times, she said, that she had been wishing to see 
them for many weeks, ever since she came to England, because 
she had made a promise that she would do so, if possible ; and 
she was sure that they would be longing to hear everything 
about their papa. Poor little Mary felt quite unhappy when 
she heard this, being conscious that she did not care half so 
much about it as she ought. She did not love her papa as 
most children do, because she never thought about him. The 
lady went on talking, and constantly she said, “ I am sure you 
must be delighted to hear of your papa ; he is so good and kind, 
and so fond of you, and it will be such a pleasure to you to go 
and live with him.” Mary did not know what to say, at first ; 
but after the lady had told her some stories about her papa, 
she began to feel that she knew him better, and asked a few 
questions, which the lady was very willing to answer. At last 
Mary became so interested, that she did not think at all how 
the time was passing on ; all that she cared for was, to be told 
something about her dear papa in India. After some time Julia 
came in, but she did not pay any attention to what was said, 
and soon went back to her play. By and by the moment came 
for the lady to go away, and when she wished Mary good-bye, 
she said, that this might probably be the last time she should 
ever see her, for she was going to leave England again immedi- 
ately. This was really sad news for poor Mary, who had been 
thinking all the time how nice it would be to see her new friend. 
She looked very sorrowful, and the lady asked her what was the 
matter. Mary did not much like to own ; but when the question 
was repeated, she said that she wanted to hear again about her 
papa, and she was afraid that if the lady went away she should 
forget it all. This was very likely, yet the lady could not help 
going, and there was no one besides who could talk to her in 
the same manner. Mary felt then how nice it was to have a 
papa, and she wished very much to do what would please him ; 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


119 

but if she had nothing to remind her of him, she knew that 
she should soon think just as much as ever of school, and just 
as little of India ; so what do you think she did, Ruth ? — 
she asked the lady to write down for her all she could remem- 
ber, and leave it with her that she might read it over. This 
request was readily granted, and the next day a short account of 
her papa’s life was sent her, written out plainly, and she might read 
it without trouble. Now, many little girls would just have looked 
at it once, and then put it aside ; but this was not Mary’s way. 
She used to read it over regularly till at last she knew it by 
heart, and the words came one after the other by rote, without 
any effort. Mary then tried more to attend to them, and she 
would sit by herself, and endeavour to fancy what India would 
be like, and what sort of life she should lead there. By degrees 
it became natural to her to think of her papa, and her home ; 
and she grew anxious to go there, and learned to count the months 
which were to pass before she should be sent for. It was very 
different with Julia ; she had not cared to hear anything about 
her papa, and you may imagine that she did not care to read 
about him. At first she looked over what the lady had written, 
but when she knew it by heart, she took no more interest about 
it ; and at length the time came when they were to sail fci 
India, and poor Julia was very wretched. All her happii^ess 
had been at school, and to go to India was going entirely 
amongst strangers, even though her papa was to be there to 
receive her. She begged to be allowed to stay behind, but this 
was impossible. There was no one to take charge of her, and 
with a very sorrowful heart she set out on her long voyage. It 
was a stormy and wearisome one, and many times even Mary’s 
heart sank as she remembered her friends in England, and 
thought, that when the dangers of the sea were over, she should 
find herself in a foreign land. But one hope cheered her, and 
that was, the prospect of seeing her papa. Julia could find no 
comfort in this. Day after day she sat upon deck, with her eyes 
fixed in the direction in which she was told that England lay. 
She would scarcely eat or speak, and when Mary tried to rouse 
her, and talked to her of the pleasure they should both have in 
meeting their father, and begged her to listen again to the lady’s 
account of his kindness and goodness, Julia only shook her head, 
and in a sullen voice said, that her papa was not like a father 
to her, for she knew nothing about him. 

‘ It was a lovely morning when they first came in siglit of land. 


120 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


Mary stood upon the deck, watching the preparations for going 
on shore. She looked at the crowds of people who were assem- 
bling to welcome the arrival, wishing to discover her father 
amongst them ; and the hope of at length really knowing him 
made her feel agitated, but veiy happy. A considerable time 
passed away, and, one after the other, the passengers landed. 
The lady who had charge of Mary and Julia begged them to 
remain where they were, as she knew that their papa would be 
likely to come on board to them. Mary’s attention was then 
given to the boats which were putting off for the vessel ; and 
each one, as it came near, she thought must be that which she 
expected. There were several disappointments ; for other 
parties were waiting in the same way, and Mary envied them 
the pleasure of the greetings. But her own turn came at length. 
A gentleman, with a telescope in his hand, was seen looking at 
the great ship. Mary knew it must be her papa, for she had 
read the description of him till she fancied she knew every 
feature ; and when he sprung up the side of the vessel, and 
folded her in his arms, and whispered a prayer that God would 
bless her, she felt that wherever he was, there her happiness 
would be. He was no stranger to her, for she had read of him, 
and thought of him ; and even that foreign land became to her 
from that moment a home.’ 

‘ But about Julia, papa,’ interrupted Ruth. 

‘ Ah ! that is the sad part of the story,’ replied Mr Clifford. 
‘Julia’s manner was not like Mary’s; she had some curiosity 
to see her papa, but that was all ; he was little more than a 
stranger to her ; she had no love to give to him. She received 
him coldly, with a melancholy smile, and her eyes filled with 
tears. She scarcely listened to what he said, and took but a 
slight interest in all the new things about her. From this be- 
ginning there followed much sorrow for all. Julia felt that Mary 
was more pleasing to her papa than she was, and therefore that 
it was probable he would love her the best ; and this made 
her jealous of the sister who before had been so dear to her. 
Jealousy caused unkind words, and they brought vexation and 
shame. Julia believed that her father and sister would be 
happier without her ; and, notwithstanding their endeavours to 
make her comfortable, nothing could overcome the wretchedness 
she felt in thinking that she was not a favourite. When I last 
heard of her, she had returned to England to live by herself ; 
but with her temper so soured, that there was little prospect of 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


I2I 


her being really happy. And there, Ruth, is an end of my 
story. I wonder whether you are much the wiser for it.^ 

‘ I liked it,^ said Ruth. 

* But can you find out why I told it you ? ’ 

‘Was it because Mary read over the paper, and learned to 
think, papa ? ^ 

‘ Yes. Mary’s reading over the account of her father, is, in a 
certain way, like our repeating the Creed ; because you know, 
Ruth, the Bible tells us that we are all strangers upon earth, 
and that our home is in heaven ; and the Creed reminds us of 
the great God, and our blessed Saviour, and the Holy Spirit, 
with whom we hope one day to live in that home. We will 
talk more about it to-morrow, when Madeline is with us ; but 
one thing I must ask you before you go : how is it that repeating 
the Creed properly would help to make you humble ? ’ Ruth 
did not know what to answer. ‘ Whom do you speak of in it?’ 
continued Mr Clifford. 

‘ Of God,’ replied Ruth, reverently. 

‘ Yes, of God, “ the Father Almighty, the Maker of heaven 
and earth ; ” the Maker of the dazzling sun, and the moon, and 
the planets, and the millions of worlds which shine above us in 
the darkness of night. The Maker of the trees also, and the 
fields, and the flowers ; the Maker of everything that moves — 
all the little insects, and the birds, and the fishes of the sea, 
and the cattle which are in the fields, and the fierce beasts which 
roam about in distant lands. Do you not think, Ruth, that 
such a Being, who is perfectly holy, and knows every thought 
and action of our lives, must be glorious beyond what we can 
imagine ? ’ 

Ruth murmured ‘ Yes.’ 

‘ And when that Almighty Lord looks into our hearts, and 
sees all that passes there, what must He think of us ? ’ 

‘ That we are very wicked,’ said Ruth. 

‘ But if, instead of believing ourselves to be wicked, we fancy 
that we are good, and set ourselves up ; do you suppose God is 
pleased with us then ? ’ Ruth coloured, and made no reply. 

‘ And still more,’ continued Mr Clifford, ‘ if that great God came 
down from heaven, and humbled Himself to die because of our 
sins, how must we appear to Him, when we pride ourselves 
upon anything we do ?’ There was a short pause ; and Ruth’s 
countenance showed what was passing within. ‘ These are 
.some of the truths which are taught us every time we repeat 


122 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


the Creed/ continued Mr Clifford. ‘ I am sure I was right in 
saying, that thinking of them would help to make us humble. 
There is a great deal more which I shall like to talk to you 
about to-morrow, when Madeline is with us.^ 

‘ The Creed will not be so much of a lesson for the future, 
Ruth, will it ’ said her mamma, kindly. 

‘ I only thought it like a lesson in the catechism,^ replied 
Ruth. 

‘ It can never really be one,’ said Mr Clifford. ‘ Ceitainly, 
it has the most solemn sound, when we all join in repeating it 
in church ; but it cannot be a common thing, because it has 
come down to us from the time of the apostles, and tells us of 
such awful subjects. It is sacred, like a prayer.’ Ruth could 
not help remembering how frequently she had said it, both in 
church and at home, as a mere set of words, almost without a 
meaning. She hesitated to wish her papa good night, fearing 
she had vexed him. But Mr Clifford’s manner was full of 
tenderness ; and, as he fondly stroked her head, he said, ‘ Will 
my darling Ruth remember what is to be done before we lie 
down to sleep, when we are conscious of having displeased God ?’ 

‘ We must pray to be forgiven,’ said Ruth, timidly. 

‘ Yes ; pray fervently, and for the pardon of that particular 
offence, for the sake of our blessed Redeemer ; lest, if we should 
neglect to do so, and God should call us to die before w’e have 
repented, we should be shut out for ever from His presence.’ 


CHAPTER XIV. 


LICE LENNOX, in her solitaiy chamber, fancied that she 



-iV alone was the sufferer from all that had passed : and she 
was indeed the most unhappy ; but if she had known all Made- 
line’s feelings, when, on the morning succeeding the storm, she 
was sent for to her papa’s study, she would scarcely have been 
willing to change places with her. Mr Clifford was in general 
so affectionate, that anything like coldness was doubly felt ; and 
the expression of his face, when Madeline opened the door, and 
asked if he wanted her, was grave, and even severe. The 
reason was, that he did not consider Madeline to be sufficiently 
aware of the naughtiness of her behaviour. She did not appear 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


123 


to care about it as she ought ; and it was for this reason that he 
required her to go to him. At first he said a few words about the 
grief which it caused him and her mamma, to find that they 
could no longer trust her ; and then, by asking questions, he 
made her repeat again the whole history of her fault, and drew 
from her the confession that she had once or twice been tempted 
to equivocate, in order to conceal what she had done. He de- 
scribed to her the distress which she had brought upon Lady 
Catharine, and the sin which Alice had been induced to com- 
mit, from having, like herself, yielded to a slight temptation. 
He had received a particular account of all from Lady Catha- 
rine that morning ; and her note, written in great wretchedness . 
of mind, proved how bitterly she felt the disappointment of her 
hopes of Alice’s good behaviour. ‘ If you had been firm, Made- 
line,’ said Mr Clifford, ‘ all this could not have been. I do not 
say that your conduct is any excuse for Alice — she must answer 
for herself ; but I do say that it is very frightful to think how 
ifiuch mischief we may cause by one fault, and that not at first 
sight a very great one.’ 

‘ I never thought Alice would tell stories about anything,’ 
said Madeline. 

‘ Perhaps not, yet she has done so ; and you, if you had 
acted properly, might have prevented it. Just think how differ- 
ently you would have felt, if, instead of following an idle fancy, 
you had shown Alice that you were wishing to the very utmost 
to keep the promise of your baptism ; and because you had de- 
clared that you would give up pomps, and vanities, and sinful 
lusts, and keep God’s commandments all your life, therefore 
you were determined, even in such a little matter, to do right, 
and try and overcome the liking for finery, which your mamma 
had warned you against. Do you think Alice would have been 
made the better or the worse by such an example ?’ Madeline 
did not reply. ‘ Whatever may happen now,’ continued Mr 
Clifford, ‘ whatever pain Alice may have to bear, you must 
consider that you might in a great measure have prevented it ; 
and I am afraid there will be a great deal of sorrow in store 
for her.’ 

‘ Indeed I indeed ! I did not intend to make her unhappy ; I 
did not think I was doing so very wrong,’ said Madeline. 

‘ But you did intend to do a little wrong, and you did it 
wilfully, and went on with it. Could God love you all that 
time ? ’ 


124 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


^ I don’t know ; I did not think/ said Madeline. 

‘ Ah ! that is the mischief ; the fault with us all, grown-up 
people as well as children ; we do not think ; and the great 
thing we have to learn is the way to think — the way to remem- 
ber, at all times, that God is seeing us.’ 

* I will try, papa, really I will,’ replied Madeline. 

‘ But you are going to school, Madeline ; you will have many 
things there to make you forget — lessons, plays, new friends, 
new subjects to talk about. If you forget at home, how will 
you remember at school ? ’ 

‘ I can’t tell ; but I will try to be good, dear papa ; won’t you 
believe me ? Please don’t look so grave at me.’ As she spoke, 
Madeline was about, as usual, to throw her arms round her 
father’s neck and kiss him ; but she drew back as soon as the 
thought crossed her ; she did not dare, for he had not told her 
that she was forgiven. 

‘ You say you will try to-day, Madeline ; and to-morrow 
temptation will come again, and you will be as before ; you 
will laugh, and play, and be led to do wrong, merely because 
you do not think ; and when you have done wrong, you will 
make excuses, and by and by you will be sorry, and beg to be 
forgiven ; and so, probably, you will go on. Who can trust 
you ? ’ 

‘ Oh, papa ! I wish you would not say so. I am very sorry.’ 
Poor Madeline’s tears now began to flow fast, but Mr Clifford’s 
manner did not change. ‘ Who can trust you, Madeline ? ’ he 
said again. Madeline heaved a deep sigh ; and, leaning her 
head against the back of her papa’s chair, she cried bitterly. 
There was a silence of several moments. Mr Clifford took up 
his pen and commenced writing, whilst Madeline remained in 
the same position. ‘ If I were to punish you,’ he began, with- 
out raising his eyes from his employment — 

‘ I would rather be punished,’ exclaimed Madeline ; ‘ only if 
you would not look so grave at me.’ 

^ My looking grave is not the principal thing for you to fear,’ 
replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ the important question is, how God is 
regarding you.’ 

‘ I was very sorry, indeed I was, papa,’ said Madeline ; ‘ and 
I did try to say my prayers last night.’ The words were spoken 
with sincerity ; and Mr Clifford, laying down his pen, turned 
to his little girl, and in a voice which showed that he loved 
her truly, notwithstanding the severity of his manner, he said, 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


125 


* If God has forgiven you, my dear child, if I could hope 
that you have really prayed to him, then, indeed, I should be 
happy/ 

‘ But I did say my prayers, just as you told me ; and I men- 
tioned all the naughty things, about the sashes, and not speak- 
ing out plainly, and doing what mamma would not like ; I said 
it all, and the prayer for when I had been very naughty/ 

‘ And were you really very sorry ?’ asked Mr Clifford. ‘ But 
suppose you were not sorry enough.^ 

‘ I don’t know ; how can I tell ? Indeed I was sorry ; in- 
deed I said it all, and I thought about it,’ repeated Madeline, 
miserable at the idea of doubt. 

‘ But what right had you to expect that God would listen to 
you, such a naughty child as you had been ? ’ 

‘ Oh, papa ! I don’t understand ; you never talked so before,’ 
exclaimed Madeline, again bursting into tears. 

‘ Because I never had an occasion. Your prayers, and mine, 
and every person’s, are the prayers of sinners ; and God is per- 
fectly holy, and, the Bible tells us, “ of purer eyes than to be- 
hold iniquity;” that is, He cannot bear to look upon sin. If 
we go before Him in our own name, what hope can we have that 
He will listen to us ?’ 

‘ But I said through Jesus Christ our Lord,’ said Madeline, 
and she bent her head reverently. 

Mr Clifford smiled, as he was accustomed to do. ‘ You were 
right, Madeline,’ he replied, ‘and if you did indeed say through 
Jesus Christ, our Lord, because you knew that God would only 
listen to you for His sake, then I can hope that you are forgiven. 
To think of our blessed Lord, and to ask Him to pray for us, 
because we are too sinful to be heard ourselves, is our great 
duty and comfort when we have done wrong. I think, now, 
you are sorry.’ 

Madeline at these words looked up with greater confidence ; 
and venturing once more to approach her father, she said, 

‘ Can you kiss me, papa.?’ Mr Clifford’s manner showed how 
truly he could pardon when he had reason to believe that repent- 
ance was sincere ; but Madeline was not yet fully satisfied. ‘Am 
1 to do anything, papa.?’ she said. 

‘ Anything disagreeable, you mean, for a punishment ; do you 
think you deserve it.?’ 

‘ I was very naughty, I know,’ said Madeline. 

‘ And if I were to give you a punishment, how would you 
bear it.?’ 


126 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


*■ I would try not to mind/ said Madeline, though she trembled 
at what might be coming. 

‘ If I were to punish you, my dear child,’ said Mr Clifford, 
‘ it would be in order to make you remember, not to make you 
sorry ; for that I hope and believe you are already. It was 
God’s punishment which did that.’ 

Madeline looked up rather wonderingly. 

< You have been very unhappy lately, have you not ? ’ 

‘ Yes, very.’ Madeline spoke heartily, for she began to feel 
what a weight she had had upon her heart. 

‘ That unhappiness was sent by God ; it was the consequence 
of your sin, and at last it led you to confess it; the great thing 
now is to prevent you from forgetting, and going wrong again ; 
perhaps that might be done without what you would call punish- 
ment.’ Poor Madeline’s face brightened ; she had fancied that 
she should be forbidden to play in the garden, or should be sent 
to bed an hour earlier for the next week or ten days. ‘ I think,’ 
continued Mr Clifford, ‘ that if you were to come to my study 
every day at half-past twelve o’clock, just when your morning 
lessons are finished, and were to repeat to me what I shall think 
right, it would help you to remember all you have done, and 
teach you to be on your guard. I should like you to try at 
least.’ 

‘ Is it anything I am to learn ?’ said Madeline. 

‘ No, something you know perfectly already — the Creed ; 
and if you want to understand why I fix upon that, I must tell 
you the same story which I did to Ruth last night, and try and 
explain more particularly what the Creed means.’ 

‘ I heard about the two little girls when we were dressing this 
morning,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Then you know how the elder one learned to remember and 
think about her father, by reading the account of his life; and 
did Ruth tell you, also, what I said that was like ? ’ 

^ No ; the bell rang,’ replied Madeline, ‘and we were obliged 
to go down-stairs.’ 

‘ It was like the way in which we learn to think of God and 
our blessed Saviour, by repeating that short history of the 
great things the Bible teaches us, which is contained in the 
Creed : but the difficulty is to repeat it, not as a lesson or a 
thing of course, but as something very important ; and this I 
hope you will do by and by. Now, go and fetch Ruth, and we 
will see if we cannot understand better than before what we 
learn in the Creed.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


127 


Ruth was soon found ; she had been wondering a little what 
was going on ; and wishing, above all things, to know whether 
Madeline was forgiven. Since the last night’s conversation she 
had really felt ashamed of her own conceit ; and she had been 
trying all the morning to make Madeline happy, and to show 
by her manner that she did not mean to set herself up, although 
she had not been guilty of the same offence. Ruth was in 
earnest in desiring to be good ; and when she was told of a 
fault, she really did try to improve, at least for a time. That 
she went back again was, indeed, frequently the case ; but this 
was from forgetfulness, and not because she had never cared 
about it ; it was, therefore, a real pleasure to her to see how 
much more at ease Madeline looked when she came into the 
school-room ; and when she was told that her papa had for- 
given without punishing, Ruth’s face lighted up with a sweet 
smile ; and, throwing down her work, she exclaimed, ‘ O 
Madeline ! that is so nice, and we will go on happily now ; we 
will not be naughty again, either of us, ever.’ 

‘ And papa will talk to mamma, I am sure,’ said Madeline ; 
*you know he always does when he wants her to forgive us 
too.’ 

‘ I never fear about mamma,’ observed Ruth, ^ she wanted to 
make it all up last night, I know. She looked quite miserable 
when you went to bed.’ 

Madeline was struck by this, and presently said, ‘ Was she 
really miserable, do you think, Ruth ? ’ 

‘ Yes, very : I am certain.’ 

‘ And papa was grave, and so were you ; and poor mamma 
was miserable,’ continued Madeline. ‘ I did not think I had 
done anything so very bad.’ 

‘ I don’t think you had,’ replied Ruth, fancying it right to 
make the best of her sister’s conduct. ‘ At any rate, it was not 
like the stories which Alice told. I can’t think how she could 
have done it. How Lady Catharine will punish her I ’ 

‘ O Ruth, please don’t say so ! ’ exclaimed Madeline, remem- 
bering that her papa had said that whatever Alice might have to 
bear, she might in a great measure have prevented ; ‘ it makes 
things seem much worse. But I didn’t mean to make you all 
unhappy. Is there any harm, I wonder, in making people un- 
happy, when we don’t mean it ? ’ 

This was not an easy question to answer ; and Madeline at 
that instant recollected that all this time she ought to have been 
in her papa’s study. ‘ No more work, Ruth,’ she said, taking 


128 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


the needle and thread from her sister’s hand ; I don’t want you 
to finish before me ; and papa is waiting.’ 

Ruth willingly replaced her needle in its case, folded up her 
work, and closed her basket. Talking to her papa, even upon 
grave subjects, was much pleasanter than learning to stitch wrist- 
bands ; and with a light, merry step she followed Madeline. 
Her smile was checked, however, when she looked in her papa’s 
face. He was plainly more careworn than usual ; and Ruth saw 
! n a moment, from his look, that anything like play and laughter 
would be against his wishes. All that had occuiaed seemed 
trifling to her ; but to him it was a cause for much anxiety. A 
child’s fault is like the bud on the tree, which, if allowed to 
grow, must one day become a full blossom ; and the evil dis- 
position which made Madeline thoughtless and Ruth conceited, 
might end in that neglect of God, and that pride of heart, which 
would at length shut them out from heaven. This, however, 
was not the principal thought in Mr Clifford’s mind at that 
moment. He hoped and believed that his children were con- 
scious of their errors ; and his only wdsh was to impress upon 
them the sense of what they had done wrong, so that under 
other temptations they might be afraid of yielding. ‘ Here is a 
place for you, Ruth,’ he said, pointing to the seat in the half- 
open window, through which came the sweet scent of the 
jessamines and roses which grew over the house : ‘ and Made- 
line shall bring her chair next to mine.’ This was a sign of 
Madeline’s complete forgiveness ; and as she drew near, and put 
her hand within her papa’s, she wondered how it could ever 
have entered into her head to do anything which would displease 
him. ‘ We were talking of the Creed last night, Ruth, if you 
remember,’ said Mr Clifford ; ‘ and I was trying to show you 
why it was a good thing for us to learn and repeat it ; but I dare- 
say even now it does not seem very clear to you.’ 

‘ I remember about the story,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yet perhaps the account of her papa’s life, which little 
Mary read over so often, sounds as if it must have been more 
interesting than the Creed.’ 

‘ I think it must have been a great deal more,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Most likely,’ replied her father ; ‘ the Creed is not a pretty 
story, and it requires an effort to attend to and understand it ; 
but so it does to say our prayers, or read the Bible. God does 
not teach any of us to be religious without trouble ; and the 
great question is, whether we will take it, or whether we are 
resolved to be indolent. What shall I say for you both ? ’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


129 

* I mean to try, papa,’ replied Madeline, speaking humbly ; 
for she was not inclined to trust herself after her late faults. 

‘ And Ruth will try also, I am sure,’ said Mr Clifford ; and 
he smiled to see the earnest way in which his little girl bent her 
e>^s upon him, as if her face would promise much better than 
her words. ‘ If you could both fully understand and believe 
what is told us in the Creed,’ he continued, ‘ you would no 
longer find it difficult to be religious. Suppose that, instead of 
having learned it by heart, you were to hear it for the first time 
to-day, what do you think you should feel about it ? ’ The 
children did not know what to answer, and Mr Clifford went 
on. ‘ We will fancy,’ he said, ‘ a little heathen child — an 
Indian, accustomed to live in the forests, and never having been 
taught anything about God ; would it not be very astonishing 
to him to be told that there was a glorious Being, who had 
always lived before the sun, or the moon, or the stars were 
created, and who must live always, even if everything else were to 
be destroyed ? When he repeated the words — “ I believe in God, 
the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth,” and then 
looked upwards to the blue sky, and abroad over the beautiful 
earth, I do not think he would consider theni, as we often do, 
a lesson. He might not, indeed, rightly understand them ; but 
he would feel that they meant something wonderful. Or let 
us take a case from among ourselves. Let us imagine ourselves 
tempted to do something wrong — to be deceitful, or dishonest, 
or inclined to tell a falsehood ; and that just before w'e actually 
did this wrong thing, we were called on to repeat the Belief — 
what would it remind us of ? ’ 

‘ Of God and our Saviour,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; not only that there is a God, but of all which He has 
done for us. We should say, in fact, though not actually in 
words, that we have now in heaven a Father who is able to do 
all things, because He is the Father Almighty; that we have 
also a Lord and Master, our Saviour Jesus Christ, the only Son 
of God, who, in order to save us from the punishment due to 
our sins, undertook to suffer for us ; that this gracious Re- 
deemer W'as, by the power of the Holy Spirit, born like our- 
selves, of a human mother, the blessed Virgin Mary ; and, 
having left the unspeakable happiness of heaven, came down 
upon earth to live amongst sinners, without a home, or riches, 
or comforts of any kind. We should be reminded that after 
thirty-three long years had gone by, which He spent in teach- 

1 


130 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


ing and tmng to make people good, and curing their sick- 
nesses, He was allowed by the governor of the country where he 
lived, named Pontius Pilate, to be crucified — that is. His hands 
and feet were nailed to a cross, and He was left to endure more 
horrible agony than we can even imagine, until He gave up His 
earthly life, and suffered His body to be laid in the grave, as 
ours must one day be, when God shall call us to die. His 
Spirit descended into hell — that is, not the place of torment 
(as the name, indeed, often- means), but the abode of the spirits 
of the dead, who are waiting for the day of resurrection. Be- 
sides these awful truths, we should remember also that, on the 
third day after our Saviour’s death. He by His own power rose 
from the grave, and went up again into heaven, to that glorious 
world which, for our sakes. He had left, and where now He 
dwells with God the Father, and God the Holy Spirit, and the 
holy angels, who are ever loving and praising Him. If we re- 
collected and thought of this Friend, and of all the suffering He 
went through for us, do you think we could go away and do 
directly afterwards the naughty thing which He has told us not 
to do ? ’ 

ISIr Clifford looked at Madeline ; but tears were in her eyes, 
and she did not venture to answer. She was thinking of 
the temptation to which she had so lately given way, and wish- 
ing that she had before remembered all that her papa was now 
bringing to her mind. There was a pause for some moments, 
and then Ruth, in a tone of surprise, said, ‘ That is not all the 
Creed, papa.’ 

‘ No,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ but it is sufficient to give us a 
great deal to think about. It is very awful ; yet that which is 
to come will perhaps seem still more so. It concerns each of 
us particularly, whether we are young or old. Wffiat is it that 
follows the words — “ He ascended into heaven, and sitteth on 
the right hand of God the Father Almighty ? ” ’ 

‘ “ From thence He shall come to judge the quick and the 
dead,” ’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Perhaps,’ continued Mr Clifford, ‘ we might be so hard- 
hearted as not to care to please our Saviour, because of His 
love for us ; we might repeat the Creed as far as we have yet 
gone, and still resolve to sin ; but there is something else to be 
thought’ of, which, if we said the words with any attention, 
would, I hope, frighten us, or at least make us stay to consider 
whether it would be safe to displease our gracious Lord. We 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


131 

are told that, some day — it may be a hundred, or fifty, or twenty 
years hence, or it may be in a few months or weeks, or it may 
be (no man knows) to-morrow, or, more fearful still, it may be 
this very day before the sun goes down — that same merciful 
Saviour, who died upon the cross, and rested in the grave, and 
then ascended to sit at the right hand of God, will appear again : 
but He will come, not as the Son of a human mother, but as 
the Son of His Almighty Father, as the Lord of heaven and 
earth. He has Himself warned us what the manner of that 
coming will be — “with power and great glory.’’ The sun, 
which now shines so brightly, will be darkened, and the moon 
will not give her light, and the stars will fall from heaven. The 
sound of a mighty trumpet will be heard ; and the voice 06 the 
archangel, the chief of all the angels, will call upon the quick 
and the dead — those who shall at that time be living, as you 
and I may be living, and those who have died before — to 
appear before the judgment-seat of the Almighty. It is im- 
possible for us fully to imagine that scene : but once — it is now 
more than 1700 years ago — a human being was permitted to 
have a vision of what it shall be. St John the Evangelist, the 
disciple whom Jesus loved, saw “ a great white throne, and Him 
that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled 
away, and there was found no place for them. And he saw the 
dead, small and great, stand before God ; and the books were 
opened, and another book was opened, which is the book of 
life, and the dead were judged out of those things which were 
written in the books : and whosoever was not found written in 
the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.” This was the 
vision, the representation of what will be. We must have been 
amongst that infinite multitude ; do you think St John saw our 
names written in the book of life ? ’ Madeline hid her face upon 
the table. ‘ I would not willingly frighten you, my child,’ con- 
tinued Mr Clifford, ‘ but indeed it is necessary that we should 
think of these things ; that when we say we believe that Christ 
our Lord will come to judge the quick and the dead, we should 
understand that He will come to judge, not grievous sinners 
only — the drunkard and the thief — not merely our neighbours 
and our friends, but ourselves.’ 

‘Will He forgive us, if we are very sorry then.?^ said Ruth, 
eagerly. 

‘ The time for seeking forgiveness will be over on that day,’ 
replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ that time is now.’ 


132 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


‘ But if we are very sorry, very sorry indeed,’ said Ruth. 

Mr Clifford shook his head : ‘ Every one will be very sorry 
indeed then, Ruth. The greatest sinner who ever lived, the 
man who was most careless, who even laughed at the thought 
of death and judgment, will be very sorry indeed ; but his 
sorrow will come too late.’ 

‘ Too late ! ’ repeated Ruth, thoughtfully. 

‘ Yes ; it is not a strange thing, is it, to find ourselves too 
late even in this life ? There are instances happening daily, 
and they are warnings, if we will but profit by them. I will 
give you one, which I am sure you have not forgotten. Do 
you not remember the very last time we went from Cottington 
to Ringwood, when I said I would take you by the railroad ? 
You were called early, your box was ready, your breakfast was 
prepared, there was nothing wanting, but that you should be 
dressed in time. Instead of dressing, you played; you thought 
one minute could not signify. Your mamma warned you, but 
you did not listen. You did not understand that there was 
anything in the world so fixed that it would not stop for you, 
even though it might be a question of life and death. At 
length we set off ; we walked quickly, and looked about us 
continually, and often I said that I feared we should be too 
late ; but you did not comprehend how it could be possible. 
It was but a short walk, and we saw the great steam-engine as 
it stopped opposite the station-house ; we even watched the 
people moving about the carriages, and we heard the panting 
noise of the engine, and the calling of the policemen. We 
drew nearer and nearer, and you thought we were quite safe ; 
— there was a slight motion in the train, and the smoke 
ascended into the air, and as the people who were standing by 
stood still, and fixed their eyes upon the long line of carriages, 
it rushed swiftly away, and we found ourselves one minute too 
late. No exertions, no entreaties, could avail us then. That 
was being one minute too late for an earthly journey, but it is 
equally possible to be one minute too late for heaven.’ 

‘ But can little children be too late ?’ asked Ruth, quickly. 

Mr Clifford waited for an instant, and leaned his head upon 
his hand, as if some painful thought had struck him : ‘ If you 
had been in the boat last night with old Roger,’ he said, ‘ if 
you had sunk in the waves, and been drowned, what oppor- 
tunity would you now have to be sorry for your sins, and pray 
for pardon ? ’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


133 

Ruth seemed alarmed even at the idea : ‘ But we never go 
on the water when it looks stormy, papa,’ she said. 

‘ Yet what do you say to other dangers, Ruth } — accidents in 
carriages, or in walking, or by lightning, or by sudden illnesses ? 
There is no moment, except the present, at which it may not be 
too late, for there is no moment at which we may not die.’ As 
hlr Clifford spoke, Madeline sighed heavily, but she did not 
look up. ‘ It is enough to frighten us, is it not, Madeline ? ’ 
continued her father, placing his hand fondly on her head, 
^ God means that it should frighten us. But when we do feel 
this fear, and begin to think, as you said the other day, that it 
is impossible to be good, we should remember that there are 
other things told us in the Creed to support and give us hope. 
If we believe in “ God the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven 
and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord,” so we 
believe also in God the Holy Ghost, and this belief is one of 
the greatest possible blessings ; can you tell me why ? ’ 

‘ Because He will help us to do right,’ said Ruth. 

* Yes, indeed. He will. We have but to pray to Him con- 
stantly, and there is no difficulty which need be too great for 
us. From the moment when, as little infants, we were made 
at our baptism members of Christ’s holy Catholic Church, that 
Holy Spirit was given to us to be our guide ; and if, when we 
say our prayers, we ask Him to continue with us, we may be 
, certain that He will never forsake us. We shall not be able to 
tell exactly how He assists us, but we shall find good thoughts 
coming to our minds just at the moment we want them ; and, 
instead of giving way to our evil tempers, we shall find that we 
have a power of overcoming them. It will be strange, even to 
ourselves, to observe, how much easier it will become every day 
to be good. And all this is to be done by praying.’ 

‘ But if we only pray,’ said Ruth, ‘ will that do as well as 
tiying ? ’ 

‘ If I were very ill, Ruth, and knew of a medicine which I 
believed would cure me, would it do me any good if I would 
not send for it ? ’ Ruth smiled at the idea. ‘ Or supposing I 
actually held it in my hand, would it be any use to me unless I 
opened my mouth and swallowed it ? In both these cases I 
should have something to do myself, and yet it would not be 
the doing it which would cure me; and so it is with our hearts. 
We have to pray and to try with all our strength, and if we do 
pray and try, God will give us His Holy Spirit to make us 


T34 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


good, but if we neglect either of these commands, even the 
the power of that blessed Spirit will be of no avail to us.' 

During this conversation it was difficult to know how far 
hladeline was listening or not. She did not try to speak, or 
show that she took an interest ; only every now and then she 
drew her hand across her eyes, to wipe away the tears which 
were fast falling down her cheek. Mr Clifford saw that she 
had been struck by the solemnity of the subjects on which they 
had spoken ; and, motioning to Ruth, he told her to leave them 
for a little while alone : ‘We will finish talking another time,' 
he said ; and as Ruth left the room he turned to Madeline, and 
added, mildly, ‘ there has been enough to think of to-day.' 
Madeline felt even Ruth’s absence a relief in her present state 
of mind ; and when she found that her sister was gone, her 
fears were told without any reserve. Mr Clifford’s manner had 
lost every trace of sternness ; and as he listened to Madeline’s 
anxious question, ‘ Whether he thought that God had really for- 
given her ?' he had no longer any doubt of her true repentance. 
He did not speak to her then of the awfulness of the Almighty, 
but of His mercy. He reminded her how long years before 
God had loved and thought of her, and sent His blessed Son 
to die for her, and at her birth had taken her into His Church, 
and made her one of that happy family to whom the glories of 
heaven are promised for the sake of Jesus Christ : ‘You are 
God’s child now, my love,’ he said ; ‘His child more fully than 
you are mine ; and Jesus Christ is your Saviour, and will ask 
for pardon for you : you do not doubt my assurances ; but if I 
can forgive, much more can He, for His mercy is infinite.' 

Often and often before had Madeline heard the same words, 
but she had little attended to their meaning, for she had not 
felt the need of them. Yet, if a child can sin, so also a child 
can repent ; and as Madeline listened to her father's words, 
she understood something of the comfort which the knowledge 
that we have a Saviour who will pray for us, and have com- 
passion upon us, ought to give to all. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


135 


CHAPTER XV. 

A lthough Mr Clifford’s thoughts were so much engaged 
with his own children, he did not forget Alice Lennox. 
She was not indeed his charge in the same way as Ruth and 
Madeline, but she was living in his parish, and he felt himself 
bound to watch over her. Notwithstanding Lady Catharine 
Hyde’s formality of manner, he thought it possible that she 
would like to see and consult with him, what was best to be 
done with a child who had shown herself so little to be trusted 
as Alice ; but Mr Clifford did not understmd Lady Catharine’s 
character. She did not require any advice, for she had made up her 
mind from the beginning as to the course she was to adopt. She 
did not ask whether Alice was sorry, or whether it was likely that, 
if allowed to remain at the Manor, she would improve more than 
if she went to school ; but having once discovered that Alice had 
disobeyed her, her only idea was to punish her severely, and 
then send her away. The determination seemed harsh, and yet 
Lady Catharine’s disposition was full of benevolence and kind- 
ness. Even Alice, in her solitary room, did not feel more dis- 
tress than did her truest earthly friend, as she walked through 
the large but desolate apartments of her house, and missed the 
light footstep and the cheerful voice which had for the last few 
months enlivened her sad life ; and felt, that for the future, ex- 
cept in the holiday weeks, she must again be lonely. 

When Mr Clifford appeared in the afternoon at the Manor, 
he was accordingly received, not with entreaties for advice, but 
with a request that he would give the terms and the direction 
for Mrs Carter’s school. ‘ I shall make a few inquiries myself,’ 
said Lady Catharine ; * and if the answers prove satisfactory, 
which I have no doubt from your report they will be, I think I 
cannot do better than place Alice there immediately.’ 

Mr Clifford was rather at a loss what to say, for he did in his 
own mind think that Lady Catharine could do better. He be 
lieved that, to allow Alice to remain at home, and to treat her 
with gentleness and firmness, would be more likely to strengthen 
her principles, and enable her to resist future temptations, than 
to send her amongst strange companions at school. So he had 
thought with regard to Madeline ; but in her case there was no 
choice. It was now settled that Mrs Beresford was to come to 
Laneton ; the two children could not therefore remain at home ; 


136 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


and Mr Clifford could only trust that constant care, and the 
influence of early instruction, would, with the blessing of God, 
be the means of keeping his child in the straight and narrow 
way of goodness. He did, however, venture to say to Lady 
Catharine, that he thought it possible that, with Alice’s unsteady 
mind, she might run great risk of evil amongst new com- 
panions ; but Lady Catharine’s answer silenced him. She said, 
‘ That the subject had been well considered — that it was not 
her custom to act hastily; ’ and she again asked for Mrs Carter’s 
direction. Mr Clifford gave it, and rose to take leave, when 
to his surprise Lady Catharine said, ‘ Will you not see Alice ? 
The advice of the clergyman of the parish, and such a friend 
as you have always shown yourself, may perhaps have an effect 
upon her. I shall not go to her myself till the evening.’ Mr 
Clifford was pleased at the offer, as it showed that, notwith- 
standing her determination, Lady Catharine was desirous to 
give him an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with 
Alice’s state of mind, and, perhaps, of being of real service to 
her ; and with willing steps he went up-stairs. The door of 
the dressing-room was unlocked and opened, but Lady Catharine 
did not enter. She only motioned to Mr Clifford to do so, 
and withdrew. The shutters were more than half-closed, and 
the dim light of an afternoon of pouring rain scarcely penetrated 
into the little room. Alice was kneeling at the window-seat. 
She was gazing through the chinks of the shutter upon the 
avenue road. It had been her sole amusement during the 
whole of the long, weary day ; but there was nothing passing, 
not even the butcher’s cart or a stray beggar ; and as a last 
hope of occupation, Alice was trying to count the tiles on the 
stable-roof, in order, if possible, to divert her thoughts from the 
wretchedness caused by her own faults. 

‘ Alice,’ said Mr Clifford ; and, upon hearing his voice, Alice 
looked up quickly ; ‘ Lady Catharine wished me to come to you. 
I daresay she will come herself by and by.’ Alice made no 
reply. ‘ Should you like to see her ? ’ continued Mr Clifford. 

‘ I don’t know ; she does not care — she is very angry with 
me,’ said Alice, speaking with difficulty. 

‘ Has she not reason to be angry, Alice ? Have you not 
deceived and disobeyed her ? And do you think it possible she 
should ever trust you again ? ’ Alice rested her head again upon 
the window-seat, while Mr Clifford went on speaking. He 
talked kindly, but seriously ; he reminded her of the duty and 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


137 


affection which she owed to Lady Catharine for her care ; of the 
positive necessity of submitting to her in all things ; of the 
ingratitude which she had shown in breaking the only command 
which had been specially laid upon her ; and then he pointed 
out to her how much sin and suffering had been caused by the 
commission of one fault. The indulgence of one wish/ he 
said, ^ the desire to gratify your liking for the bonbons when you 
knew they were not allowed, led you to be deceitful to Lady 
Catharine, and selfish, almost cruel, to Madeline ; who, though 
she had done wrong, ought never to have been accused unjustly ; 
and at length it brought you to be guilty of that great sin of lying, 
which, in the Bible, is spoken of in such fearful language. O, 
Alice ! can you really be indifferent to such conduct ? Does it 
give you no pain to think that your earthly friends doubt you, and 
grieve over you, and that God, the all-holy, all-merciful God, 
your Father in heaven, is angry with you ?’ Mr Clifford paused ; 
he hoped that Alice would speak that he might discover whether 
she had any sense of the evil of which she was guilty; but Alice 
still appeared immovable. Yet it would have been a mistake to 
suppose that she was hardened, and did not feel Mr Clifford’s 
words : she did feel them in her heart, but she did not choose to 
confess it ; perhaps towards Lady Catharine she would have been 
more humble, but with Mr Clifford she was partly shy and 
partly obstinate ; and a sudden determination seized her not to 
answer to anything which was said ; she was wilful by nature ; 
and the consciousness of having behaved very ill made her still 
more so. Finding that serious words took no effect, Mr Clifford 
tried more gentle ones : he had seen that Alice was really fond 
of Lady Catharine ; and he described how much she was grieved; 
how pale and worn she looked, and what an effort it was to her 
to talk upon all that had passed ; and then Alice was more 
wretched than before, and more resolved that she would not 
show it. Mr Clifford was extremely disappointed ; he was 
accustomed to see his own children give way whenever he 
reproved them ; and he did not know how to deal with a 
disposition so perverse. He again addressed Alice kindly, and 
begged her to look up and answer him ; but his words were 
entirely thrown away. Every moment that Alice continued 
obstinate strengthened her resolution of taking no notice, because 
it made her more ashamed of doing better. It would have 
been easy to have spoken at first, but when many minutes 
had gone by it became almost impossible ; and Mr Clifford, 


138 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


finding that his persuasions were useless, gave up the attempt. 

‘ As you will, then, Alice,’ he said : ‘ I came in the hope 
of finding you penitent, and begging for Lady Catharine’s for- 
giveness ; since you will not listen to me, you do not need it ; 
when I see you next I trust you may be in a better mind.’ He 
turned to leave the room, and pausing in the doorway, cast 
one more glance upon Alice, trusting even then that she would 
have spoken ; but whatever might have been her grief she 
suffered nothing of it to appear. Lady Catharine was waiting 
for him at the foot of the stairs ; she did not ask any ques- 
tions, but her countenance expressed anxious expectation. Mr 
Clifford shook his head : ‘ It is a disposition I cannot un- 
derstand,’ he said ; ‘ but I do not really think she is as insen- 
sible as she tries to appear ; your ladyship probably will be 
more successful.’ 

‘And will she not own that she has been wrong.?’ exclaimed 
Lady Catharine. 

‘ She will own nothing ; but she has been crying, and is evi- 
dently in great distress of mind ; it might have been shyness 
which prevented her from speaking to me.’ Mr Clifford hoped 
by this observation to induce Lady Catharine to go at once to 
Alice ; but the resolution to wait till the morning was made, 
and it was not to be broken. Mr Clifford took his hat, and 
prepared to go. Lady Catharine’s face was pale, and her man- 
ner agitated. Mr Clifford would willingly have said something 
to console her, but she did not give him the opportunity : she 
held out her hand, and warmly returned his cordial pressure, 
but she said merely the ordinary words at parting ; and Mr 
Clifford returned home, disappointed both with her and with 
Alice. 

And so that day passed, and the next, and the day after ; 
nothing was known of what was going on at the Manor ; even 
the servants did not meet ; and whether Alice was forgiven, or 
whether Lady Catharine was still resolved upon sending her to 
school, remained a mystery. The children at the Parsonage 
were now busily occupied ; for the day was fast approaching 
when they were to leave home. There was a good deal of 
amusement in the preparations, notwithstanding the unpleasant 
thoughts connected with them : new dresses were to be tried 
on, new books to be ordered, workboxes and drawing-boxes to 
be fitted up, and a visit to Cottington was in contemplation to 
buy whatever was still wanting. All this was agreeable enough ; 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


139 


but when Madeline went each day to her papa’s study at the 
appointed hour, to repeat the Creed, as he had desired, a re- 
membrance of shame and self-reproach came to her mind ; and 
when Mr Clifford made her stop to collect her thoughts, and 
then said a few words to her upon the awfulness of the subjects 
of which she was about to speak, Madeline’s mind was sobered : 
she felt that she was forgiven, but she was not allowed to 
forget. 

There were other circumstances which at that time seiwed to 
cast something of gloom over the Parsonage. The sudden death 
of the old fisherman had been a great shock to almost every one 
in Laneton ; and Mr Clifford, as he went from house to house, 
and heard the regrets, and witnessed the tears which were shed 
for his loss, could not help sympathising with the general grief. 
The children also saw that such an awful event must be intended 
as a warning ; and when the Sunday arrived which was fixed 
for the funeral, they thought it sad to see the sun shine bright 
and hear the birds sing, when the old man who, only the week 
before, had been able to enjoy himself likewise, was about to be 
laid in the darkness and stillness of the grave. Mr Clifford was 
silent in the morning at breakfast, and walked alone in the 
garden before the service began ; and when he read from the 
pulpit the text which he had chosen for his sermon : ‘ Watch, 
therefore, for ye know not what hour your Lord doth come,’ — 
there was a little hesitation in his voice. But the death of the 
righteous (and such there was every reason to believe Roger 
Dyson might with truth be called) must ever be a cause rather 
of hope and thankfulness than of sorrow, and when Ruth and 
Madeline joined their father after the funeral service was over, 
there was even a cheerfulness of manner which showed that to 
him the remembrance of death could never be unwelcome. 

‘ It seems such a sad day,’ said Ruth, as she took hold of her 
papa’s hand : ‘ I wish people would not choose to be buried on 
a Sunday.’ 

‘ It is not often a choice,’ observed Mr Clifford : ^ generally 
speaking, it is necessity, or at least a matter of convenience. 
But, to my notions, Sunday is the best day to fix on for a 
funeral, because it is the one which brings with it the greatest 
comfort : it is the memorial of our Lord’s Resurrection.’ 

^ Yes,’ replied Ruth, ‘ mamma said so too, just now ; but it 
does not seem right either ; it makes every one melancholy ; 
and you know, papa, Sunday ought always to be happy.’ 


140 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


* It would not make us melancholy, if we thought rightly, my 
love. Even if we had lost a dear friend, there would be as 
much of peace and joy, as of grief in our feelings.’ 

‘ Not about any person,’ said Ruth. 

‘ No, certainly not ; but I am speaking of cases, like the 
present, in which we have every reason to believe that our loss 
is another’s gain. Roger Dyson was, I most truly think, a 
faithful member of the Catholic Church, and we may without 
presumption trust that his spirit is at rest.’ 

‘ You mean, because he was baptized, don’t you, papa.^’ said 
Ruth. 

‘ Not entirely, my dear. There are a great many persons 
who are baptized ; but, I am afraid, there are but few who when 
they die can be really accounted, in God’s sight, members of 
His holy Catholic Church. Of course it is not for us to decide 
in any particular instance, because those who have done wrong 
may have repented, but when we know that persons who have 
been thieves, or drunlcards, or liars, or passionate, or even 
indolent, proud, selfish, vain, or in fact giving way wilfully to 
any sin, we can scarcely hope that they will be accepted at the 
day of judgment as belonging to the Church of Christ. We 
know that they will not be, if they have died in their sin.’ 

‘ But they belonged to it once,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; but they may by their own fault be cast out of it, as 
a child may be turned from his home, and considered as no 
longer one of the family. Even here on earth, sinners are 
sometimes cast out of the Church — they are excommunicated ; 
that is, they are publicly and solemnly cut off from the 
privileges and blessings of the Church ; and especially are not 
allowed to receive the Holy Communion.’ 

‘ Old Roger always went to Laneton church,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Yes, but when we talk of Laneton church, or Cottington 
church, or Winslow, or Markland churches, we mean only 
different buildings ; when we speak of the Church of Christ, or 
the Catholic Church, we mean the people who go to worship 
in those buildings. Catholic, you know, is not the name of 
a place — it means universal, that is, belonging to all countries, 
and all ages.’ 

‘ Then there are a great many built churches,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Yes, but only one Catholic Church.’ 

‘ I think I know what you mean, papa,’ said Ruth ; ^ all the 
people who are baptized and go to church.’ 


LAiYETON PARSONAGE, 


141 

‘ Those belonging to the Catholic Church in England/ said 
Mr Clifford, ‘ but the Catholic Church is also in America, and 
Scotland, and France, and Italy, and many other countries 
besides/ 

‘ That makes a great many,’ said Ruth ; ^ they cannot aU be 
one/ 

‘ Are you sure of that, Ruth ? You have an uncle in America, 
and another in India, and another in Jamaica : do they not all 
belong to one family?’ 

‘Yes, I see, papa, but ’ 

‘ But what ? do not be afraid to speak, my love/ 

‘ Are the churches in other countries quite like ours, papa ? 
Do the people say just the same prayers, and have they books 
like ours ? ’ 

‘ Not exactly ; but I daresay your uncles do not live exactly 
alike. It is impossible they should, indeed, yet that does not 
prevent them from belonging to one family. They may dress 
differently, and get up at different hours, and have a great 
many different habits, but they are still brothers, the children 
of one parent.’ 

‘ And the churches in Scotland, and France, and America, 
and all the places you mentioned, are brothers ?’ said Ruth. 

‘ Sisters rather they are called, but I cannot explain the 
reason to you now.’ 

‘ But,’ said Ruth, and a shade of perplexity came over her 
face, ‘ it is not the same either j all the churches in different 
countries cannot have the same parent.’ 

‘ They may be descended from the same,’ replied Mr Clifford; 

‘ your cousins in America, for instance, belong to our family ; 
but your uncle Edmond is their father, and I am yours : and 
the same with your cousins in India and Jamacia. There may 
be several different fathers, but all will have come from one 
person, that is, your grandfather.’ 

‘ And the churches all over the world must have come from 
one,’ said Ruth, still looking confused. 

‘ Yes, from our Lord Jesus Christ, the great head of the 
Universal Church.’ 

‘ But who are all the fathers ?’ asked Ruth, quickly. 

‘ The bishops are,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ they are called ‘ 
Right Reverend Fathers in God. You know the first bishops 
were the twelve apostles. Our Saviour gave to them a special 
gift of the Holy Ghost, and before their death they were 


142 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


directed to choose other persons to be bishops likewise ; and to 
ordain them by laying their hands upon them, and praying for 
the blessing of God. Our Lord then gave to these persons 
authority, such as apostles had, and so it has gone on down to 
the present day.^ 

‘ Then the bishops are all like brothers,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Yes, and they all have the same power given them by God 
'to rule the Church and to make clergymen, like me and Mr 
IVIonckton of Cottington.’ 

‘ Then who is it we read about to mamma in our history ? ’ 
asked Ruth, ‘ the pope, I mean.’ 

‘ He is a bishop — the bishop of Rome.’ 

‘ But in the history,’ said Ruth, ‘ it talks about him as if he 
were bishop of England.’ 

‘ Yes, some hundred years after the apostles, the bishop of 
'Rome set himself up above the others who were his brothers ; 
and because he had been looked up to, and allowed to decide 
in cases of difficulty, just as an elder brother might do, he 
declared he was to rule in everything.’ 

‘ But why did the others let him do it ?’ asked Ruth. 

‘ They did not at first, they said constantly that he was very 
wrong ; but he and the bishops of Rome who came after him, 
persisted, till at last people began to believe them, and then they 
had their own way, and ruled everything in England and 
France, and everywhere.’ 

‘ They don’t do so now,’ said Ruth. 

‘ No, because three hundred years ago, the king and parlia- 
ment of England, and the bishops of the Catholic Church in 
England, said that they had no business to do it; that they 
might rule Rome, but they had no right to rule in England. 
There was a great quarrel about it, and since then, the bishops 
in England have not paid any attention to the false claims of 
the bishops of Rome.’ 

‘Did a bishop make you a clergyman, papa ? ’ asked 
Madeline. 

‘ Yes, no one else could do it. Our Saviour does not allow 
any persons to teach and administer the Holy Sacraments, 
except such as have been what is called ordained by a bishop.’ 

‘ And that is the reason you were ordained,’ said Ruth. 

‘Yes; first of all, I was made a deacon, by having the 
bishop’s hands laid upon my head, after he had prayed for me. 
When this was done I was allowed to perform the greater part 


laJveton parsonage. 


U3 


of the service, but not the whole. I could not pronounce the 
absolution or forgiveness of sins, nor consecrate the bread and 
wine in the Holy Communion. When I had acted as deacon 
for two or three years, I was made a priest in the same way, by 
the authority of the bishop, and now I may perform the whole 
duty.' 

‘ Did old Roger understand about it all ? ' inquired Ruth. 

Mr Clifford smiled. ‘ It is not very likely he did; yet he 
may have been more truly a Christian than you or I are. It 
is not knowing, but believing and doing, which will, for our 
Saviour's sake, gain us admittance into heaven.' 

‘ And does Roger belong to any Church now ? ' asked Ruth. 

‘To the Catholic Church still. Those who have been holy 
members of Christ's Church upon earth, continue to be so, 
only in a far more blessed state of peace and safety, after they 
die.' 

‘ God takes care of them,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes, just as He took care of them upon earth, and as He 
takes care of us ; and our Saviour loves them, and the Holy 
Spirit comforts them ; they belong to God's family exactly the 
same, whether we see them or not ; and after the Resurrection 
they and we, I hope, shall all live together in heaven. So that 
we have a great deal in common with all good and holy persons, 
even when they are gone from this world, because they are 
living still, and have the same God to protect them, and the 
same home of perfect happiness to look forward to.' 

‘ And, papa, do you think old Roger knows anything about 
us now ? ' 

‘ It is impossible for me to say,' replied Mr Clifford, ‘because 
there is so very little information upon such subjects in the Bible. 
God has not seen fit to reveal to what degree the friends we 
have lost from our sight can still take an interest in us, or care 
about us.' 

‘ Roger was not one of our friends, exactly,’ said Ruth, ‘ so he 
would not care about us.' 

‘ That does not follow, Ruth; wherever his spirit may now 
be, he must understand far better than we can hope to do, the 
importance of all which passes here. He feels the peace which 
our Saviour has promised to all who love Him ; and he knows 
how horrible it would be to be looking forward to the torment of 
hell, instead of the blessedness of heaven. The other world is 
like a dream to us, but it is all real to him, just as real as that 


144 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


we are walking in this garden, and looking upon the trees and 
the sea. And if he could know that we are risking the loss of 
heaven by giving way to any known sin, whether it be a great 
one or a little one, it must be more frightful than it would be to 
us to watch a man hanging over that high cliff by a single 
thread.’ 

‘ But, papa,’ said Ruth, < good people now care when they 
see wicked ones, because mamma was very unhappy the other 
day when Ralph Haynes had been stealing.’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Mr Clifford, ‘ the better we are, the more sorry 
we shall be for sinners ; especially for those who are members of 
the Church, and yet disobey God.’ 

‘ But we ought to be angry with them, ought we not ? ’ said 
Ruth. 

‘ How do you think Madeline would feel if you had done 
wrong.?’ inquired Mr Clifford. Rose blushed; she knew why 
her papa did not ask her how she would feel if Madeline were 
m fault. 

‘ I should be very sorry,’ said Madeline. 

‘ I am sure you would : you love Ruth, for she is your sister, 
you belong to one family. God has a family too ; some upon 
earth, and some, like old Roger, in the world of departed spirits, 
and those who are particularly our brothers and sisters upon 
earth, are the members of the Church. We ought to attend to, 
and assist, and think of them before any others. It will be no 
good to recollect about the Communion of Saints in heaven, if 
we forget those who are living.’ 

‘But, papa,’ said Ruth, in surprise, ‘ Church people are not 
saints ?’ 

‘ Some are, Ruth, and all ought to be.’ 

‘ A great many are very wicked, I know,’ continued Ruth. 

‘ Then their punishment will be the greater. God has given 
them the opportunity of being good, by taking them into His 
Church, and bestowing upon them His Holy Spirit.’ 

‘ And must we care about them if they are ever so bad?’ said 
Ruth. 

‘ We must care by trying to teach them better. Church 
people are more our relations than others, I think you must 
understand now.’ 

‘ I am glad Roger was a Church person,’ said Ruth. 

‘ So am I, indeed, it gives me a much more happy feeling 
about him ; though if he had not been, I hope God would have 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 


145 


forgiven him, because he would have been ignorant, and not 
wilfully sinful.’ 

‘ He can never be sinful now,’ observed Ruth, hlr Clifford 
walked on a few paces in silence. Ruth had said what had 
been in his own thoughts often during the day. 

‘ His grave is made under the old yew-tree, in the east corner 
of the churchyard; shall we go and look at it.?’ he asked. 
Ruth put her hand within his, whilst Madeline went forward to 
open the little gate which led into the lane, dividing the church- 
yard from the Parsonage garden. 

It was a sheltered, quiet spot which had been chosen for the 
last resting-place of the old fisherman. The ivy-covered wall 
protected it from the keen blast of the east wind, and the knotted 
branches of the dark yew spread over it, as if to guard it from 
the rays of the mid-day sun. There were not many graves 
near it ; only a few crumbling stones marked the spots where, 
in long past years, others, humble like himself, had been com- 
mitted to the dust ; beings, whose names, forgotten upon earth, 
were scarcely to be discovered from the half-defaced letters 
which had recorded them, but whose souls, resting in the hands 
of God, were awaiting the unchangeable sentence either of con- 
demnation or of mercy. ‘ His trial is over,’ were the first words 
which Mr Clifford spoke ; ‘ the end of ours is yet to come.’ 
Ruth fixed her eyes on the newly turned-up earth ; it seemed 
impossible that one who had so lately lived and moved amongst 
them, should then be lying motionless beneath it. 

‘Did he never do anything wrong ? ’ asked Madeline, in a 
whispered voice. 

‘ Yes, Madeline ; often, very often ; no day passed with- 
out it.’ 

‘ But, papa, he is happy.’ 

‘ Happy, we may believe, as surely as we can believe it of 
any human being ; but it is not because he never sinned, but 
because for the sake of the Saviour in whom he trusted, his sins 
are forgiven.’ 

‘ And God will forgive us, too,’ said Madeline, in a half 
anxious, half confident tone. 

‘ Yes, if we repent and amend here ; the forgiveness of sins 
is promised to us now, but there is no forgiveness in the world 
of spirits.’ 

‘None.?’ said Madeline, as if the thought had struck her 
for the first time. 

K 


146 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


‘ None ! ’ repeated Mr Clifford ; and, leaning against the old 
wall, he covered his face with his hands. There was a silence 
of some minutes ; the children stood at the head of the fisher- 
man’s grave, and gazed mournfully around. Sweet summer 
flowers were springing amidst the green turf, and insects were 
buzzing in the warm, misty air ; the songs of birds fell blithely 
upon the ear, and the distant lowing of cattle, and the tinkling 
of sheep bells, mingled with the low murmur of the waves which 
were breaking upon the sandy shore. At that moment all were 
unheeded, and a sense of the awfulness of death came over them 
such as they had never felt before. 

‘ It seems so still, so quiet,’ said Ruth, as she drew nearer to 
her father’s side. Mr Clifford looked at her and smiled. 

It is right that it should be so, is it not, Ruth ? They who 
dwell here have given up all interest in the noise and the busi- 
ness of this world ; they are quiet themselves, and the place of 
their rest should be quiet likewise.’ 

‘ They will never hear anything again,’ said Madeline, and 
the thought seemed full of sadness. 

‘ Yes, Madeline, they wdU; one sound there is for which they 
are all waiting — the sound of the archangel’s trumpet, which 
will summon the dead and the living to judgment. The bodies 
that are now mouldering away will then live, and move, and 
breathe again, even as we wake from our nightly rest to the 
business and the pleasures of the day.’ 

‘ But it does not seem that it can be,’ said Ruth, thought- 
fully. 

‘ It is hard to think so when we look upon the graves of the 
dead,’ replied her father ; ‘ but it is not hard when we look 
upon the earth and the sky. The God who could make the 
universe can do all things ; and the Saviour who raised Him- 
self from the tomb will not fail to raise us likewise.’ 

^ To wake again !’ said Ruth ; Mt is so strange !’ 

‘ And more strange still, Ruth, the life which we shall then 
begin to live will never end ; whether it be happiness so great 
that we cannot conceive it, or misery so dreadful that the most 
horrible torments of earth are as nothing in comparison, there 
will be no sleep to break it.’ Again there was silence, inter- 
rupted only by the light, gentle sounds of the summer evening. 
Mr Clifford’s eye wandered over the churchyard ; and as it 
rested upon a lonely grave, apart from all others, in the 
farthest corner, he slightly shuddered, and an expression of 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


U7 


great pain passed over his countenance. ^Are you ill, papa.^’ 
said Ruth, anxiously, when she noticed it. 

* No, my love ; ^ and the look of peace which accompanied 
the words made Ruth happy again ; ‘ but there are some things 
which always come to my mind in a churchyard, especially in 
this one, and they naturally make me serious ; perhaps you would 
say melancholy.' 

* Ought we to think of them, too, papa.?’ 

‘ It is not possible you should, my love ; but there are many 
here whose lives were sinful, and their deaths, I fear, without 
repentance, for whom the thought of the life everlasting is full 
of terror.’ 

‘ Did you know them, papa.?’ said Madeline. 

‘ Yes ; some I knew long, and I tried to warn them, but they 
wmuld not listen ; and there was one, he who is buried by him- 
self beneath the thorn ; he had lived a wicked life, and when I 
spoke to him of his evil ways he mocked at me, and even closed 
his door against me ; and at last, after some time had passed, 
I thought I would try once more. I went to him, and entreated, 
as if he had been my OAvn child, that he would repent while yet 
there was time. He turned from me in anger, and said that he 
would never suffer me to open my lips to him again ; and I 
never did ; God did not suffer it ; that very night he was 
brought home dead.’ 

‘ I remember, papa,’ said Ruth j * nurse told me of it ; but 
^he did not seem frightened.’ 

* Because she did not think of that which was to come after- 
wards. If we could imagine what it must be to enter upon 
the life which can never end, we should never speak lightly of 
death.’ 

‘ But we may be happy,’ said Ruth. 

‘ God in His rhercy grant it, my child !’ said Mr Clifford, 
earnestly. ‘ Yes, we may be happy — happy, as the Bible tells 
us, in a home so blessed that “ eye hath not seen, nor ear 
heard ; neither hath it entered into the heart of man to con- 
ceive ” its blessedness. But we may also be miserable, and 
now is the time of our trial.’ 

And will there never be an end.?’ asked Madeline. 

‘ Never ; even if we were now to go down upon the sea- 
shore, and take a grain of sand from the millions upon millions 
that are collected there, and, moving so slowly that our steps 
could scarcely be perceived, were to begin our journey towards 


148 


LANE TON PARSONAGE 


the very farthest of those distant worlds which shine above us 
in the evening sky, and when we had left it were again to return 
for another, and another, and another, till every one of those 
tiny particles, both here and throughout the world, had been 
carried away, yet even then, when that immeasurable time had 
passed, we should be no nearer to the end of the life everlasting 
than we are now/ 

Madeline tried to think, but she could not ; she could not 
understand, and she felt unhappy. 

‘ We cannot hope to comprehend this clearly, my love,’ said 
Mr Clifford, ‘ but we shall do well to think about it sometimes. 
It is easy to speak of the resurrection of the body, and the life 
everlasting ; the words come like any other words ; they pass 
our lips easily, but they are, like the name of the all-holy God, 
awful and vast, and only to be mentioned with the fervent hope 
that when our bodies are raised, and our souls re-united to 
them, and we enter upon the life everlasting, it may be a life of 
joy in the presence of God.’ There was a tear in Madeline’s 
eye as she turned to leave the churchyard ; it was a tear, not 
for the dead who were resting there, not for the fisherman, 
whose cottage was empty, but it was a tear for her own faults — 
for the sins which, though they had been forgiven, were still so 
frequently recalled to mind, and which, if she had persisted in 
them, would have unfitted her for the happiness of heaven. 
Madeline was learning by degrees that her life on earth, even 
her life as a little child, might bring upon her happiness or 
miseiy for ever. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

H OW quickly time passes ! so we all say, upon meeting 
friends after absence, or when an event happens which 
has raised our expectations, or even when we stay quietly in our 
homes, and occupy ourselves in our daily duties. It is only 
when we look forward that time seems long. When Ruth and 
Madeline were first told that they were to go to school, the 
period seemed years off. Two months appeared as if they 
would never be over. Yet the days slid by almost without no- 
tice, and in the midst of lessons, and play, and the business of 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


149 


preparation, came, almost as if it had never been thought of, the 
very week fixed for their departure. Time was short to them, 
for they were usefully engaged, and notwithstanding the pro- 
spect of separation, there was much to give them pleasuie. 
But time was very long to one who, like them, had lessons and 
occupations, but who was conscious that she had forfeited the 
good opinion of her best friend, and who could never look in 
her face without being reminded of the grief she had caused her. 
Alice Lennox was forgiven — forgiven, that is, so far, that after 
two days of solitary punishment, when her proud heart was in a 
measure subdued, and Lady Catharine went to her and found 
her crying, and heard her confess how wrongly she had acted, 
and beg that Madeline might be told she was sorry, then, and 
not before, she was allowed to leave her room and return to her 
usual pursuits. But Alice saw that everything was changed. 
Lady Catharine never reproached her, and even Marsham 
ceased to find fault with her. She was allowed to employ her- 
self as much as she chose ; but there was but little notice taken 
of anything which she did. If her lessons were well done. Lady 
Catharine scarcely looked pleased ; if they were badly done, 
she scarcely seemed to think it worth while to reprove her. 
And no one spoke to her of the future. No one said, ‘This day 
week, or this day fortnight, such a thing will most probably 
happen; do you think you shall like it.^^ and when Lady 
Catharine once mentioned her intention of paying a visit to a 
friend, she gave Alice no idea of what would become of her in 
the meantime. There was an air of mystery over everything, 
and Alice saw herself suddenly shut out from all the attention 
which she had before been accustomed to receive. She was no- 
body. What she did, or what she did not do, seemed equally 
a matter of indifference. Why, she dared not ask. Lady 
Catharine was so silent, so occupied, she could not interrupt 
her. It was not now as it had been, when Alice felt something 
of a child’s privilege with a mother, and knew that she should 
be listened to with pleasure. Strict though Lady Catharine had 
formerly been, it had been merely the strictness of over-anxiety 
and affection ; and Alice could better have borne any rules, than 
she could the being allowed to follow her own will, with no one 
apparently to care for her. 

She began to repent her misconduct far more truly than she 
had done when shut up in punishment ; then she had, indeed, 
shed tears of soitow, because she was wear)^ of being alone, and 


r so LANEfON PARSONAGE. 

vexed at her own folly for having brought upon herself so much 
suffering ; but she was proud — she thought herself hardly used. 
Now she had nothing to complain of ; — she was fed, and taught, 
and allowed to walk about and amuse herself. The persons 
who came to the house saw no marked change in the manner in 
which she was treated, and yet Alice was wretched. Night 
after night she laid her head upon her pillow, and cried herself 
to sleep; and morning after morning she awoke with a heavy 
weight upon her heart, and a dread of the long day that was 
before her, without the prospect of a single word of encourage- 
ment ; and, worse than all, Alice felt that she was no longer 
trusted. Her word was doubted She was not told so, but she 
found, that if anything happened in which there was occasion for 
her to say what she had done, or what she had seen, immedi- 
ately there was a hesitation — some one else was called in to 
answer likewise ; or, if that could not be, even the servants 
would pause, and say, ‘ Well, it might be so, but they could 
not be certain.’ Alice’s assurances were no longer taken for 
truth : this was a most severe trial. Alice Lennox was by 
nature proud, wilful, and insincere ; but she was also warm- 
hearted and energetic, and full of respect for those whom she 
knew to be good. Their approbation was the one thing which 
she longed for, and it was this which had attached her to Lady 
Catharine when she had been what many persons would have 
called severely treated. Even, during this heavy time, Alice 
did not dislike Lady Catharine ; she trembled before her, 
dreaded her appearance, gladly escaped from the breakfast or 
the dinner table to be out of reach of her eye, but it was only 
because she was ashamed of herself, because she was conscious 
that she had forfeited any claim to confidence. Lady Catharine 
was still religious, benevolent, and self-denying, devoted to 
God, and unwearied in relieving the wants of her fellow- 
creatures; and Alice, when she most shrank from the sound of 
her voice, still felt that it was the voice of one whose goodness 
she ought sincerely to strive to imitate. Yet a change did 
come at last. Slowly as the hours passed ; yet they did at 
length bring an alteration in Alice’s life. There were prepara- 
tions for some event ; what, she could not tell ; but her drawers 
were overlooked, her linen was counted, her frocks were brought 
out and tried on, and one whole afternoon Lady Catharine 
spent in examining her school-books, and putting aside a cer- 
tain number. There were long consultations between Marsham 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


*51 

and her mistress ; and Mr Clifford came frequently to the 
Manor. His coming, however, made but little difference to 
Alice ; he had scarcely noticed her since the day when he had 
so vainly tried to make an impression upon her. The names 
of Madeline and Ruth never in her presence passed his lips, 
except on one occasion, when he had particularly mentioned 
that Madeline sent her love ; and Alice could not bring herself 
to speak of them. On one day Mr Clifford paid a third visit, 
a most unusual occurrence, and Alice, having escaped from 
the drawing-room as he entered, found her way into the gar- 
den. It was not for pleasure that she went there. She had 
her flowers, it is true, but Lady Catharine never asked now how 
they were looking ; and she had a rabbit to pet, but Madeline 
and Ruth were not there to see how tame it was, or to pick 
cabbage-leaves to feed it. There was the summer-house to 
go to, but there was no particular amusement in being in it 
alone ; and there was always something uncomfortable in 
Alice’s mind when she sat there thinking — a recollection of the 
beginning of her faults, and a remembrance of Benson appear- 
ing at the garden gate, and of the day when she had strayed 
into the servants’ court. From thence was to be seen also the 
end of the house, and the windows of the forbidden rooms. 
The summer-house could not be agreeable, and Alice preferred 
sauntering up and down the walks, or sitting upon the steps 
with her back to the green door into the park ; anything rather 
than be so constantly reminded of how much happier she might 
have been than she was. She thought of what might be going 
to happen to her — of the probability that she would be sent to 
school, the same school with Madeline and Ruth ; she should 
like that ; but perhaps Lady Catharine would tell upon her, 
and all the girls would know that she had been a story-teller 
and deceitful. It was dreadful to have done something which 
she was afraid might be known, and the slight feeling of 
pleasure which Alice had entertained in the prospect of school 
was gone in an instant. She was lonely and wretched. Now 
that her dear mamma was gone, it did not seem that there was 
any one to take an interest in her. Alice had not felt so before, 
but the misery of her own heart made her overlook every 
blessing which she still enjoyed. She remembered Benson, but 
the remembrance did not give her pleasure. Benson had been 
very kind, and when she was quite a little girl, and did not 
know any better, she had been satisfied with her ; but Alice, 


152 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


within the last few months, had learned that persons were to be 
valued for something beyond kindness ; she had no respect for 
Benson, and without respect no love can be lasting. Besides, 
Benson had never ventured near the Manor since the day of the 
discovery in the east rooms, and Alice had accidentally heard 
the cook tell Marsham that she was gone away for some time ; 
and even if she had been at Laneton, Alice would not have been 
tempted again to break Lady Catharine’s commands, and meet 
her by stealth. It was a long hour that Alice stayed in the 
garden. She did not know whether Mr Clifford was still in the 
house, and she disliked seeing him. At length the glass door, 
which opened from the stone hall, was opened, and Lady Catha- 
rine appeared alone. She walked slowly up the path, stopping 
as she went to gather a few flowers, and to give an order to the 
gardener. Alice kept at a distance, waiting till some notice 
should be taken of her. Lady Catharine drew near, and whilst 
still examining some flowers, she said, coldly, ‘ Alice, you had 
better go in ; Marsham wants you.’ 

Alice obeyed instantly, but she was chilled to the heart, and 
her eyes filled with tears. Marsham was impatient ; she had been 
looking for her, and calling her, and her temper, which was none 
of the sweetest, was more than usually irritable. Alice’s dress 
was taken off, and put aside in a box with several others, and a 
new one was put on. Alice was pleased at the change, though 
it made her angry to be pulled about roughly, and told to stand 
still, just as if she were a child of two years old. ‘ That is not 
the place for my frock, Marsham,’ she said, pettishly, when the 
operation of dressing was over. 

‘ Never you mind. Miss Alice ; little girls should not ask 
questions, and give trouble.’ 

Alice knew that she had done neither the one nor the other, 
and she was provoked. ‘ But, Marsham, it never does go there, 
it is always kept in my bottom drawer ; and if you don’t put it 
there, I shall not know where to find it.’ 

‘ And much that will signify ! Don’t you trouble your head 
about it ; I ’ll take care fast enough.’ Marsham looked mys- 
terious, and, kneeling on the floor, began industriously filling 
the same trunk with more of Alice’s things. 

‘ But Marsham, indeed — what are you doing ? I don’t like 
my things touched,’ exclaimed Alice, indignantly. 

Another mysterious look was the answer : the work rapidly 
progressed, and in a short time the box was declared to be so 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


153 


full that it would be necessary to call in assistance in order to 
make it shut. Alice stood watching what was going on ; one 
minute asking a question, then venting her anger at receiving 
no answer ; and gradually working herself up into a state of 
extreme irritation. Marsham, however, went on unheeding ; 
the box was dragged into the passage, one of the men-servants 
was called to close it, the key was turned, and Marsham 
departed. At the same moment the bell rang, and Alice was 
summoned to tea. For the last two months she had been in 
the habit of taking it with Lady Catharine, and once she had 
enjoyed the half-hour and looked forward to it. Now, it was a 
silent meal ; eating and drinking seemed the one thing to be 
thought of ; and when this was over Alice was ordered to look 
out her music-books, and to fetch her workbox ; and being 
supplied with needles, thread, pins, and other requisites for work, 
she was employed for some time in winding silk and filling a 
needle-book and pincushion ; and was then ordered to carry 
her box up-stairs to Marsham. Alice’s curiosity was becoming 
painful ; yet she dared not ask a single question. She lingered 
to see what would be done with her box, but it was placed on 
the table and left. Marsham said ‘ Thank you,’ as if she knew 
quite well why it was brought, and Alice was obliged to go 
down-stairs again. Afterwards followed the looking out of a 
few story-books. That was not a difficult task — she had not 
many, and there was no fear of their being hidden among the 
lesson-books, for the lesson-shelf was nearly empty. Slates, 
copy-books, desks, and papers, had disappeared. The school- 
room looked deserted. Perhaps Lady Catharine thought so, 
for she sighed as she gazed around, and her eyes glistened with 
tears ; Alice’s heart might be heavy, but there was one heart 
yet heavier. All the business was at length finished. It was 
clear to her now what was about to happen — she was going to 
school. But where ? when ? would it be the very next day ? 
More than ever she longed to ask. It wanted half an hour to 
her bed-time, and she drew near the fire, opposite to Lady 
Catharine, hoping that now, at last, some information would be 
given her. Lady Catharine took out her watch, and stirring 
the fire to make a blaze, looked at it and again sighed. ‘ Eight 
o’clock ! you had better go, Alice ; there is a journey in store 
for you to-morrow, and you must be up early.’ Alice rose to 
obey ; she approached Lady Catharine to wish her good-night, 
expecting the cold, quiet kiss, which lately had been her only 


154 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


mark of affection. But it was a strange kiss this night — long 
and fervent, even as the kiss of a mother’s fondness ; Lady 
Catharine’s arm was thrown around her, and her hand was held 
with a trembling grasp. No word was spoken, but the God, 
‘ who seeth the heart,’ heard an earnest entreaty for His blessing 
upon a weak and sinful child ; and when Alice had left the 
room. Lady Catharine Hyde buried her face in her hands, and 
gave vent to a sorrow which no human eye would have been 
permitted to witness. 

Parting with those we love must of necessity be one of the 
great trials of human life. So many accidents, so many changes, 
may happen before we meet again ; and there are very few who 
have faith enough to feel that there is an All-seeing eye, and an 
Almighty arm equally at hand to watch over and protect in 
their absence as in their presence. We fancy — who does not 
fancy ? — that our friends are safest when with us. Even Mr 
Clifford, as he sat with his wife and children by the cheerful 
fire on the last evening which they were to spend together, 
experienced something of the same misgiving, though it was 
checked directly it was discovered. ‘ To-morrow ! ’ said Ruth, 
and every one repeated to-morrow ; and then there was a pause ; 
Madeline’s thoughts were in a stage-coach, Ruth’s in the draw- 
ing-room of Mrs Carter’s house, which she had already begun 
to picture to herself. Mrs Clifford rose from her seat, and 
walked rather quickly about the room, taking up boxes and port- 
folios to see if anything had been left behind. She had done so 
once or twice before ; she had not really any fear ; but a sudden 
restlessness had seized her: she longed for something to do. 

‘ Dear mamma,’ said Madeline, following her, ‘ can’t I help 
you ? ’ 

‘ No, thank you, my love ; I don’t want anything,’ and Mrs 
Clifford sat down again as suddenly as she had moved. Ruth 
was resting on a low stool, and her head was leaning against 
her father’s knee. He passed his hand over her hair, but he 
did not speak for some time. At length he observed — 

‘ Some one else is to say good-bye to Laneton to-morrow. 
Can you guess who ? ’ 

Madeline looked up hastily : ‘ Some one else, papa ? a child, 
do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Yes, a child ; some one you know.’ 

Madeline scarcely required to think. ‘Alice,’ she exclaimed, 
whilst her voice was husky, and her cheek became crimson. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


155 


‘ She is going to school also/ said Mr Clifford. There was 
a peculiar tone in his voice, which showed that he had serious 
thoughts in his mind. 

‘To Mrs Carter’s.?^ asked Ruth, eagerly. 

‘ Yes, to Mrs Carter’s \ you will have the same companion 
there as here.’ 

‘ Not the same, papa,’ said Ruth; ‘Madeline will never do so 
again.’ 

‘We must hope not.’ Mr Clifford had learned to speak 
doubtfully upon the probability of any person’s goodness, much 
more upon that of one so unstable as Madeline. 

‘ Is Alice to go with us 1 ’ asked Madeline, in an under- 
voice. 

‘ No, she will travel alone with Lady Catharine. • Alice goes 
to school for punishment.’ 

‘ I am sure Alice is very sorry for being naughty,’ said 
Ruth. 

‘ I trust and think she is. Lady Catharine thinks so, too ; 
but Alice’s faults will require much time to correct, and so will 
yours. Perhaps when you are together again you may all be 
led into mischief.’ 

‘ You are always afraid for us, papa,’ said Ruth, whilst she 
drew her head up rather proudly. 

‘ Fear is safe,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘it teaches us to be on 
our guard. My great fear for you, Ruth, is, that you do not fear.’ 

‘ And for me, papa .? ’ said Madeline. 

‘ No, my love, I think you have learned to fear. Your danger 
is, that you will not think before you act ; that you listen to 
every one who talks to you, and jump into a fault before you 
well know what you are doing. You say yes to everything in an 
instant.’ 

‘ And what is Alice’s ’ said Ruth. 

‘ I do not know Alice as I do you, my dear child ; perhaps 
she is wilful and determined ; but we will not talk about her in 
that way.’ 

‘ You won't be afraid for us when we grow up,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes, more than I am now, unless you have made good use 
of your childhood, and have firm, strong characters.’ 

‘ I daresay we shall have, as we are going to school,’ said 
Ruth ; ‘ we shall be able to do like others more.’ 

‘ And what do you think these others will be like ? will they 
all be good ? ’ 


156 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


* I don’t know/ said Ruth, considering. 

* I am sure they learn a great deal,’ observed Madeline ; 

* Fanny Evans goes to school, and she writes French letters, 
and next year she is going to begin Italian.’ 

‘ And you can do — what ? ’ 

‘ Only French exercises — easy ones. I never tried to write 
a letter.’ 

‘And Fanny Evans reads Grecian history, too, papa,’ said 
Ruth ; ‘ and she can say all the gods and goddesses, and the 
popes, and the French kings.’ 

‘ Very wise, indeed,’ said Mr Clifford ; ‘ I don’t know what 
Mrs Carter will say to two such little ignoramuses as you.’ 

‘ Mamma wrote to Mrs Carter, and told her not to ask us 
hard questions,’ said Madeline. 

‘ I don’t think I should very much mind being asked,’ 
observed Ruth. ‘You know Fanny Evans is eleven years old 
— eleven and a half now ; and she has been at school three 
years, and Alice knows hardly anything about history ; she will 
be much worse off.’ 

‘ Alice can say her English dates, though,’ said Madeline ; 
‘ and I think Lady Catharine has taught her a good deal. But 
do you know, papa, she used to read “ Jack and the Beanstalk ” 
to Benson ? ’ 

The two children grew quite merry at the idea of such a 
lesson, and Madeline having somewhat recovered the sensation 
of shame, which had come over her upon the mention of Alice’s 
name, declared she should like her being there of all things. 

‘ But it is so odd for her not to set off with us,’ said Ruth ; 
‘ shall we see her as we go along ? ’ 

‘ No, she will travel by a different road in a carriage.’ 

‘ And won’t she sleep in our room, for us to talk to her ? ’ 
said Madeline. 

‘ When I went to school,’ replied Mrs Clifford, ‘no talking in 
rooms was allowed.’ 

‘ None, mamma, not a word ? oh, how cruel ! ’ 

‘ Not at all like home! ’ exclaimed the children; and in an 
instant Mrs Carter’s house assumed very much the aspect of a 
prison. 

‘ But what shall we do ? we can’t undress without talking ; 
it will be so very dull,’ said Madeline. 

‘ So very, very dull,’ echoed Ruth. The bright smiles which, 
a few minutes before, had lighted up their faces, vanished ; and 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


157 


in their stead tears gathered in their eyes, notwithstanding their 
endeavours to check them. 

‘ I did not think at all it would be so strict,^ said Ruth. 

‘ I thought it was to be just like home,^ said Madeline. 

‘ And that we might run in the garden, and read, and laugh, 
and do what we liked,’ continued Ruth. 

^ Ves ; all the same as we do now, Ruth, only have some 
otliers with us, and Mrs Carter to take care of us.’ 

‘ Please, papa, may we stay with you 1 ’ said Ruth, caress- 
ingly. 

‘ Impossible, quite impossible ! ’ and Mr Clifford shook his 
head. Ruth turned sadly away ; after that word, impossible, 
she had never any hope of gaining her point. 

‘ To-morrow,’ she once more repeated, but there was more of 
melancholy in her voice than there had been before. ‘ Papa, we 
would be so very good if you would let us stay.’ 

‘ Ruth, my love, this is but a new fancy. School is not at all 
worse to-day than it was yesterday.’ 

‘ If we might only talk when we go to bed,’ said Madeline, 
while the tears flowed down her cheek. Her mamma took her 
upon her lap, laughing at her being such a great baby. 

‘ I never did like it,’ said Ruth ; ‘ I never said that I did. 
When I was told first, I could not bear it.’ 

‘ And, mamma, we shall not see you such a long, long time,’ 
half whispered Madeline ; and she turned her head aside whilst 
she played with her mamma’s watch chain, vainly striving to 
recover her composure. Mrs Clifford felt as sorrowful at the 
thought as her little girl. < Part of September, and October, 
and November, and a bit of December,’ she said ; ‘ not more 
than three months.’ 

It was but poor comfort, and Ruth’s sigh was very deep. 
‘ Well ! ’ said Mr Clifford, ‘ perhaps after all, it is best not to 
try to be comforted. Three months must seem a long time, and 
school is not as pleasant as home, and we would none of us be 
parted if we could help it.’ 

Ruth looked up in his face. ‘ Do you really think so, papa .?’ 

‘ Yes, really ; I have not been so uncomfortable for a long 
time ; I don’t know what I might do if I were left to myself : 
cry too, perhaps, and poor mamma is worse than all, I suspect.’ 
Madeline’s lips were pressed to her mamma’s cheek. A tear was 
resting on it, and Mrs Clifford smiled at being found out. 

‘ And now that we have all confessed to being unhappy, sup- 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


158 

pose we ring for candles, and go to tea,’ continued Mr Clifford. 
Half of Ruth’s grief had vanished when she saw that it was 
shared by others ; and she busied herself in putting away the 
books. Madeline ran to fetch the keys ; the fire was stirred ; 
the candles were placed upon the table ; the urn was brought 
in ; and in a few minutes they were all seated around it, and 
school was again the subject of discussion. A merry one, how- 
ever, for the children tried to forget the expected dulness of bed- 
time, and their mamma was appealed to with questions about 
her own school-days — questions which would always have 
been interesting, but now seemed really of consequence. Bed- 
time came at last, earlier than usual ; for the same reason which 
Lady Catharine had given to Alice, there was a long journey in 
prospect the next day. 

‘ They shall read to me to-night, I think,’ said Mr Clifford 
to his wile, as the clock struck eight. ‘ There is no very great 
hurry, and it is the last night.’ 

Ruth had a most uncomfortable feeling in her throat, and 
Madeline’s tears broke out afresh. ^ Did you read at school, 
mamma 1 ’ she said in a broken voice. 

‘ Yes, but alone in my own room, after we had prayers down- 
stairs.’ 

Ruth brought the book, but it was very difficult to find the 
place ; something seemed to come across her eyes and blind 
them. She turned over the pages quickly. ‘ It is the 1 1 9 th 
Psalm to-night, papa,’ she said, as her father took the prayer- 
book from her. 

^ Suppose I were to read for you just this once.’ The children 
drew near, an arm was thrown round each little waist, and their 
mamma turned aside from the light, and cried quietly. Ruth 
looked round, wishing her to come to the table,. but Mr Clifford 
made a sign that she was not to be disturbed, and immediately 
began reading. There were but a few verses ; short and very 
simple : telling of the blessedness of those that are ‘ undefiled 
in their way, and walk in the law of the Lord ; ’ those that 
‘ keep His testimonies, and seek Him with their whole heart.’ 
A wish there was also, that God would direct the ways of His 
servants, and enable them to keep His statutes ; and the promise 
of the thankfulness of ‘ an unfeigned heart,’ when ‘the judgments 
of His righteousness ’ should have been fully learned. Mr Clif- 
ford read the words slowly, and as he came to the end he said, 
‘ The next portion too is beautiful ; we may all learn something 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 159 

from it to-night. It tells us how young men and the aged, how 
parents and little children, may cleanse their ways, and walk 
according to the law of their God.' Ruth and Madeline listened 
to their father’s voice, and felt that it had seldom before sounded 
so solemn. ‘ “ My delight shall be in thy statutes, and I will not 
forget thy word ; he repeated a second time, when the addi- 
tional portion of the psalm was ended. ‘ That was the declara- 
tion of a wise and good man, and his blessedness also.’ 

*• Do statutes mean laws .? ’ asked Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; and it shows how good the person who wrote the 
psalm must have been, that he could venture to promise to the 
All-seeing God that he would take a delight in His laws. Gener- 
ally speaking, persons do not take a delight in God’s laws — 
they find them troublesome.’ 

‘ Do you take a delight in them, papa ? ’ said Madeline. 

‘ I hope I do, in a degree, my love ; though not at, all as I 
ought ; but I should be very miserable without them.’ 

‘ Do you think we shall, some day ? ’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes, indeed, I do : it is my greatest comfort when I think 
upon what your future life may be.’ 

‘ But what good will it do you, papa } ’ said Madeline. 

‘ It will prove to me that you are in God’s favour, under His 
protection, and so I shall not be afraid of anything that may 
happen to you.’ 

Madeline sighed. ^ It is very hard to be good, now,’ she 
said. 

‘ And not at all pleasant, sometimes,’ continued Mr Clifford. 

‘ But the doing must come first, and the pleasure will be certain 
to follow.’ 

‘ Now, whilst we are children,’ inquired Ruth. 

‘ Yes, if you are really in earnest. Even children can under- 
stand what a blessing it is to have a being to love them who is 
so powerful, that He made them as well as all the world ; and 
to have a friend in God’s blessed Son, who, by His death, has 
redeemed them and all mankind from the anger of God, and 
has promised them great happiness in heaven : and even chil- 
dren, when they wish to be good, can feel what a help it is to 
know that they have some one always near, God the Holy 
Ghost, to sanctify or make them holy.’ 

^ Who sanctifieth me and all the elect people of God,’ re- 
peated Madeline, for the words seemed to come quite naturally. 

‘ Ah ! if you could but remember that, my dear child,’ said 


i6o 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


Mrs Cliflord, approaching the table. ‘ If you could learn to 
think of it now ! ' 

‘ You would not mind our going to school, mamma,’ whis- 
pered Ruth. 

‘ Mind it — I should, because it would still be parting from 
you ; but it would not be the same sort of minding.’ 

‘ It must not be so now,’ said Mr Clifford ; ‘ we must none of 
us doubt, and think that God will forget those whom He has 
elected or chosen to be His.’ 

‘ Oh ! papa ; how do we know ? ’ and Ruth looked up in 
surprise. 

‘ You forget the outward mark, Ruth.’ 

‘ Our baptism,’ said Ruth, blushing. 

‘ Yes, that is the sign of our being chosen, of our being num- 
bered amongst God’s elect now.’ 

‘ But hereafter ’ — began Mrs Clifford — she could not finish 
the sentence. Her husband looked at her tenderly. 

‘ We will trust for the hereafter,’ he said, ‘to Him who has so 
blessed us at the present. He who took our darlings to be His 
own, when we offered them to Him at their baptism, will surely, 
if we all pray to Him, sanctify their hearts and guard them from 
sin, whatever temptations may assail them.’ 

‘ But if we are chosen, there is no fear,’ said Ruth. 

‘ The Israelites were chosen,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ they are 
constantly called God’s chosen people ; yet of all those who 
were taken from bondage in Egypt, and who passed through 
the Red Sea, which is the type or figure of Christian baptism, 
but a few, a very few in comparison, entered the promised 
land.’ 

‘ The others died,’ said Ruth, in a serious voice. Though 
she had read the account so often, it seemed as if she had never 
thought much of it before. 

‘ Yes, in the wilderness,’ replied her father, ‘ and their history 
is written for our example. Yet the fact of having been chosen 
is a cause for great thankfulness ; it gives us hope, and espe- 
cially when we have reason to believe that the Holy Spirit is 
really sanctifying or making us holy, that v.^e are obtaining the 
victory over our sinful tempers.’ 

‘ If we are not,’ began Ruth. 

‘ If we are not, there is great cause for fear. It is as if the 
child of a great prince were to despise his blessings, and ne- 
glect his duties, and, leaving his father’s home, were to dwell 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


i6i 


amongst persons who were ignorant and vile, till at length he 
became like them/ 

‘ But we are not princesses,^ said Madeline. 

‘Not on earth, not to the eyes of men, but we are something 
far greater — we have been numbered amongst the elect people 
of God ; and if we continue steadfast to the end, there is a 
crown awaiting us in heaven, so bright and so lasting, that the 
first of earthly monarchs might well give up all for its possession.’ 

‘ They think you are speaking from fancy,’ said Mrs Clifford. 

‘ Nay,’ replied her husband, and a smile of happiness and 
hope passed over his features, ‘ I am 'speaking really — of that 
which I believe and know — for it is witten in the Word of 
God. And even now, if their eyes ^vere opened, and they 
could see all that is really passing around them, they would 
surely find themselves walking in the midst of angels and in 
the presence of God, and guarded and loved with a love as 
much greater than yours and mine as the God of heaven is 
superior to a sinful human being. They are God’s children,’ 
he continued, ‘ and whilst they remember this they are safe.’ 

‘ Ah ! whilst they remember,’ repeated Mrs Clifford, anxiously. 

Her husband smiled cheerfully, and as he kissed his little 
girls, and pressed them fondly to his heart, he said, ‘ Yes, to 
learn to remember is for us all the great business of life.’ The 
children lingered still, but the conversation was ended, and they 
were obliged to go. What had been said, however, was not 
forgotten, for as they laid their heads upon their pillow, Ruth 
said to Madeline, ‘ We -will try and remember, Madeline — 
won’t we ? ^ 


CHAPTER XVIL 

I S there any time in the year more pleasant than a bright 
morning in early autumn, when the air is soft, yet bracing, 
and the leaves are only just beginning to change, and white 
clouds flit rapidly across a blue sky, and as we wake from our 
comfortable sleep with a feeling of health, and open our window 
to look out upon the beauty which God has spread out for our 
enjoyment, our minds, as well as our bodies, seem strengthened, 
and we are able to look forward without fear to the business or 
the trial of the day ? Madeline and her sister could not have 

L 


i 62 laneton parsonage, 

told why it was that leaving home seemed so much less sad the 
next morning, but they felt that it was so. They had thoughts 
of cheerfulness rather than of melancholy, when Martha called 
them and told them to dress quickly, that they might be in 
time for the coach ; and the sight of their trunks and baskets, 
and all the preparations for their journey, was rather a pleasure 
than not. They dwelt less upon the home they were to leave 
than upon the new places they were about to visit. ‘ I don’t 
care about going in the coach to Cottington,’ said Madeline, 
who, according to her usual custom, stood wasting her time at 
the window, ‘ but what I shall like will be the railroad.’ 

‘ And London,’ added Ruth, ^ beautiful London ; and all the 
shops. Mamma says we shall be two hours there before we 
have to go to Mrs Carter’s.’ 

‘ It is so odd about Alice,’ said Madeline ; ^ I can’t think 
why she doesn’t go with us. It seems, somehow, as if she was 
a prisoner, doesn’t it ? ’ 

‘ It does not signify what she seems like now,’ replied 
Ruth ; ‘ we have no time for thinking about her. If you stand 
dawdling in that way, Madeline, you will be too late. 

< Too late ! ’ repeated Madeline, slowly. She stopped to 
consider for an instant, and then, as if the words had given 
her a new power of exerting herself, began to dress quickly. 

Mrs Clifford came in to help them. Martha corded the 
boxes, the gardener was called in to carry them down-stairs, 
and then the two children were told to go to breakfast. It was 
quite a grand breakfast for them — cold meat, and eggs, and dry 
toast — and they might eat what they liked ; but, on this first 
day of their having such a permission, their appetites were 
gone ; they wanted nothing. Dressing had made them feel 
differently. They had a very unpleasant sensation at their 
hearts, and when Mr Clifford said that he fancied he heard the 
coach, Ruth felt as if she should be choked. There might have 
been some cause for this in the alteration in their mamma’s 
countenance, for Mrs Clifford was pale, and there was a dark, 
heavy shade around her eyes, as if she had not slept well. 
There was a quivering, too, every now and then, about her 
lips ; and when she tried to cut some bread and butter, her 
hand shook. Every one seemed unhappy, except, perhaps, Mr 
Clifford. He appeared more cheerful than usual ; but, when he 
had said something to make the children laugh, he would leave 
off suddenly, and put down his knife and fork, and walk away 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


163 

to the window. That was very unlike his usual manner, cer- 
tainly, but Ruth thought that he might be trying to become 
grave again. 

^ The coach, sir,^ said Martha, opening the door. 

Mr Clifford rose immediately : ‘ Come, my loves, there is no 
time to lose ; if you want anything more, you must take a 
biscuit with you.’ 

‘ I have quite finished, papa,’ said Madeline, struggling in 
vain to retain her tears. Ruth pushed her plate away, but sat 
still, gazing fixedly before her. 

‘ Ruth — my dear child — pray — indeed, you must be quick,’ 
exclaimed Mrs Clifford. 

At the sound of her mamma’s voice Ruth started. ‘ Yes, I 

know — Madeline, shall I bring ’ but before the sentence 

was finished, Ruth burst into tears, and throwing her arms 
round her neck, sobbed aloud. Mrs Clifford felt it was no time 
for giving way to grief, and gently disengaging herself, she 
said — 

* This is not like you, my own Ruth ; I thought we were all 
to try to show self-command ? ’ 

Ruth’s pride was touched; she made a great effort to subdue 
her distress, and, without venturing again to speak, ran to 
fetch her bonnet. Madeline went with her, and the first burst 
of sorrow was checked by the necessary parting instructions as 
to the boxes and the frocks, and the parcel to be given to Mrs 
Carter, and, above all, by the injunctions to write often, and 
say everything that came into their heads. The coachman 
was looking impatient, and muttering a prophecy that they 
should be too late for the train. ‘ Once more, dear, dear 
mamma,’ said Ruth, and she held up her face for the last kiss. 
Madeline held her mother’s hand so tight that it became almost 
pain. 

‘ We will think of the day after to-morrow,’ said Mr Clifford, 
as he hurried the children into the coach, and then returned to 
to take his own farewell. Mrs Clifford did not try to say good- 
bye ; her eyes were dimmed with tears, but she stood at the 
door, and gazed at the two little faces which peeped from the 
window, and, when the corner of the village street was turned, 
she still strained her sight to catch a glimpse of the heavily- 
laden coach, as it slowly wound its way up the steep hill of 
Laneton. At length, however, even that distant view was 
denied her, and she was compelled to return to her ordinary 


164 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


duties, with a heavy heart, but with full trust that God had 
heard her prayers, and would guard her husband and her 
children from all evil. 

The day closed in drearily, the sky became overcast with 
clouds, the wind moaned amongst the trees, and from time to 
time drifted to the ground the few faded leaves which already 
began to give warning of the coming winter. It was an autumn 
evening ; always rather mournful, but in some places more so 
than in others. In London and its neighbourhood, many 
things unite to make it particularly dull to strangers, who have 
no old friends and cheerful firesides to welcome them. Mrs 
Carter’s school-room might have been thought dull by many. 
It looked out into a garden, a large one for London, or rather 
for the environs of London. There was a smooth piece of 
turf in front of the window, marked by many brown patches 
amongst a few of green, which had lately sprung up by the 
help of a refreshing rain. A fine beech-tree grew in the centre, 
around which was nailed a boarded seat ; and some trim 
flower-beds, with a tolerably fair show of dahlias and chrysan- 
themums, bordered the neat gravel walks. It was a very 
pretty garden for London, and a very pleasant play-ground for 
Mrs Carter’s school ; and the little troop of girls, who were 
amusing themselves in it for the spare half hour before tea, 
cared nothing for the cloudy sky, or the moaning wind, and 
had no thought to give to the brown turf. Their own homes 
might be prettier, but they were very happy where they were ; 
and what with the occupation of learning, and the pleasure of 
playing, there was but little time left for regrets. School to 
them was not at all an unhappy place, but a child, situated like 
Alice Lennox, who looked for the first time upon the high walls, 
the roofs of the surrounding houses, and the dusky sky with 
the streaks of orange and red, shining dingily through the 
smoke of London, would probably have been filled with melan- 
choly thoughts, and have found little to please in the tree, the 
walk, or the flower-beds, or even in the voices of laughter which 
from time to time rang merrily in the air. Alice had passed a 
day of fatigue and annoyance, travelling the greater part of the 
time in Lady Catharine’s chariot, without speaking or being 
spoken to ; and (except when the horses were changed^ stop- 
ping only once, for about a couple of hours, at the house of a 
lady whom Lady Catharine was desirous of seeing. The early 
part of the journey was agreeable enough ; for Alice, like 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 165 

Madeline and Ruth, felt the enjoyment of the lovely weather, 
and found an interest in the country and the towns through 
which she passed, which is denied to a traveller on a railroad ; 
but she could not forget that she was seated by Lady 
Catharine’s side, and that she was going to school because she 
had not behaved well at home. Where the school was to be, 
even then Alice did not know. She had asked Marsham, but 
had obtained no answer ; and though a hope lingered in her 
mind that it might be Mrs Carter’s, and that she might again 
meet Madeline and Ruth, there was also a fear that it might be 
in some distant place, far away from all she loved, where she 
should be kept with strictness, or even severity. This seemed 
to her the most natural idea, for if she was really going to Mrs 
Carter’s, why was she not told at once 1 Half her fear would 
be over then, and she did not believe that Lady Catharine 
wished to torment her. If any comfort were to be had from 
knowing where her future residence was to be, she thought that 
she should have been told long before. Alice did not know 
that this silence was part of Lady Catharine’s punishment. 
It was considered right that her going to school should be 
made as serious a thing as possible, in order to produce a due 
effect on her mind. Lady Catharine judged rightly, that when 
Alice knew she was to be in Mrs Carter’s house, and to have 
Madeline and Ruth for her companions, the change, instead of 
being a punishment, would almost appear a pleasure. For this 
reason it was that the journey was silent and gloomy. Lady 
Catharine told the names of the towns, and once or twice pointed 
out some particular places, a gentleman’s house, or a spot cele- 
brated in history, but she said scarcely anything besides ; and 
when they rested in the middle of the day, Alice spent the two 
hours by herself, with no employment but that of eating her 
luncheon, whilst Lady Catharine and her friend were engaged in 
conversation. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when 
they again resumed their journey, through rather a pretty 
country ; and Alice, pleased at having something more to amuse 
her, felt her spirits rise in consequence. After all, she might be 
going to Mrs Carter’s ; and at the thought her curiosity rose to 
such a pitch, that she actually turned round to ask the question. 
But she could not put it into words ; there was that in Lady 
Catharine’s face which repelled her. She was reading also, and 
it would be against her especial order to interrupt her ; so Alice 
once more looked out for the milestones, which were her s:reatest 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


1 66 

comfort, as they told her that she was at least on the road to 
London, and thus gave her the greatest probability of being 
finally deposited at the wished-for door. By degrees the beauty 
of the day passed off, and the loveliness of the country seemed 
to be passing also. There were more houses — regular rows, 
with straight bits of garden, consisting of a strip of turf, and a 
narrow border of flowers, and a line of pavement leading up to 
each door. Occasionally a large red brick mansion, surrounded 
by a very high wall, stood back in melancholy grandeur from the 
road, apparently too proud to associate with its neighbours. Then 
came an inn, with the sign of the Black Horse, or the Blue Boar, 
or the Golden Lion, and a long list of all the conveniences which 
might be obtained by any one who chose to stop there. To this, 
perhaps, succeeded an open space — a village green, as it had 
once been'called ; the grass worn away by the hundreds of foot- 
steps which were daily in the habit of crossing it ; and a few 
posts and railings, showing that there was a desire on the part 
of the neighbourhood to protect it, if possible, from further in- 
jury. Now and then, too, it seemed as if they had reached a 
regular town, for there were paved streets, and good shops, and 
a certain appearance of bustle ; but after passing two or three 
of these places, Alice did not again find herself in the country ; 
rather the rows of houses were more frequent, the gardens 
smaller, and the village greens more rare ; till at length the 
open country was quite gone, and dingy dwellings, and dust- 
covered trees, met her eye the whole length of the road. ‘ It 
must be London,’ thought Alice, but it was not the London she 
had fancied ; it was not so grand. A few minutes afterwards, a 
heavy, rumbling sound was heard, louder than the noise of the 
carriage, louder even than that of the stage-coach, which Alice 
had daily heard as it passed through the village of Laneton. 
She put her head as far as she dared out of the window, and 
saw rapidly approaching, a huge, unwieldy vehicle, neither like 
a coach, nor a carriage, nor a cart, nor anything that she had 
ever seen before, except perhaps the Cottington van. It was 
long and narrow, of a bright yellow colour, with ‘ Victoria,’ 
painted in large letters upon the outside. There were several 
narrow windows down the side, and as it drew near Alice per- 
ceived that it was filled with people. On the outside also there 
were some passengers- and the driver’s marrow seat was half- 
occupied by a dirty -looking man, smoking a cigar, whilst on the 
step behind stood another man, holding on by a strap, and 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


167 

makmg signs to the people, and calling out to them as he passed 
along. Alice felt frightened as it drew near, especially when 
she saw two others behind, and several smaller carriages, some 
like gigs with heads to them, and others like little flys and 
chariots crowding up the road. 

‘ That is an omnibus, Alice,’ said Lady Catharine as the 
yellow van rolled by them ; ‘ and now we are near London.’ 

Alice felt her heart throb with pleasure, but she merely said, 
‘Is it ? ’ And then her head was again thrust out of the window, 
to watch everything that went by. There was much to amuse, 
for the number of carriages and people increased. Alice felt 
more than ever an anxiety to know where she was going. If all 
these things were to be seen from Mrs Carter’s house, or from 
any house, it could not be dull. Lady Catharine’s eye was upon 
her ; she was watching her attentively ; but she did not allow 
Alice to perceive it ; and the same silence was observed as 
before. 

‘ Are we in London, now ? ’ Alice ventured at length to ask. 

‘ No, we are not going there.’ 

Alice was grievously disappointed, yet a little consideration 
gave her fresh hope. Mrs Carter’s house was not in London, 
only near it. The carriage advanced, but more slowly. The 
postilion looked about him, apparently uncertain how to proceed^ 
and twice he turned quite round. Lady Catharine laid her hand 
upon the check-string ready to give her orders. A house standing 
back from the road was seen on the left-hand side. It was of red 
brick,, and rather large, with stone facings to the windows, and 
more ornamented than modern houses. There were some trees 
at the back and at the sides, and a gravel sweep in front, en- 
tered by two gates, and altogether it was a very respectable-' 
looking place : rather sombre, but still with a considerable air 
of comfort about it. At the first gate the check-string was 
pulled, the carriage stopped, the footman dismounted, and in 
another instant they drove up to the door of the red house. 
Alice’s colour went and came, and her heart beat rapidly. 
The loud pealing bell and the thundering knock were 
answered by a staid, neat-looking woman, who, without wait- 
ing for any inquiries, drew back for Lady Catharine to enter ; 
she then called to a feUow-servant to assist in unpacking the 
carriage, and led the way herself up a short flight of steps, and 
opening a door at the end of a broad passage, which might 
have been termed a lobby, showed a small study, nicely fur-^ 


i68 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


nished, and provided with a bright fire and plenty of books, 
where she begged that the ladies would rest themselves, whilst 
she went to inform her mistress of their arrival. Alice seated 
herself directly, but Lady Catharine, contrary to her usual mood, 
was restless, and paced the room with uneven steps. ‘ Is this 
Mrs Carter’s ? ’ was the question which again rose to Alice’s 
lips, but again also it was checked. Her awe of Lady Catha- 
rine had within the last few hours become almost dread. The 
books before her might perhaps give her some information, and 
whilst Lady Catharine stood at the window, from which nothing 
was to be seen but a back court, Alice ventured to take one in 
her hand, hoping to see a name in it. She had not opened it 
when a footstep was heard, and as Alice replaced the book on 
the table. Lady Catharine Hyde stepped forward to greet the 
lady who entered the apartment. She was a tall, elderly per- 
son, with a countenance which in her youth it was easy to be- 
lieve might have been decidedly handsome ; for there was still 
something more than commonly pleasing in her very benevolent 
mouth, finely formed nose, and bright good-natured eye. Her 
forehead was high, and across it her hair was simply braided. 
She wore a dark silk dress, made not unfashionably, yet with a 
certain peculiarity from its extreme neatness, which, added to 
her plain cap, and handsome drab-coloured shawl, made her 
appear rather unlike other persons. Yet Alice felt directly that 
she was not as awful as Lady Catharine. A few words of greet- 
ing were interchanged, and the lady kissed Alice, and called her 
by her name, as if well acquainted with her. Alice listened 
eagerly to hear hers in return, but it was not mentioned : the 
conversation turned upon the weather, and the journey ; and, 
after a short time. Lady Catharine begged that she might have 
a private conversation. ‘ Perhaps Alice will like to go to 
her companions,’ she added. Alice thought she should like it, 
and the lady told her to follow her. They passed through a 
high, dark passage, at the end of which was an ante-room, con- 
taining some book-cases, and desks, and benches covered with 
green baize ; and within this was another larger room, furnished 
much in the same style, and with windows opening upon the 
garden already described. 

‘ This is the school-room, Alice,’ said the lady. ‘ I hope 
you will soon be quite at home here.’ Alice was going to reply, 
when the same servant who had opened the door came into the 
room, and begged to speak to her mistress. The lady turned 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 169 

to Alice : * Will you wait one moment for me, my dear ? I shall 
be with you again immediately, I hope/ 

Alice could not object, and she was left alone. The window 
at first afforded her sufficient amusement. Twelve girls of dif- 
ferent ages, varying from ten to fifteen, were grouped in different 
parts of the garden ; some strolling about arm in arm ; others 
running along the walk at play ; a few, with spades and rakes, 
gardening ; and one, with a book in her hand, apparently 
learning her lesson. They were Alice’s future companions, and 
she gazed upon them with an interest unlike that which she 
had ever felt for any other girls. But they were strangers, 
they did not know or care for her, and, perhaps, when they had 
heard her story, and were told that she was sent to school in 
disgrace, they might despise her. Alice was angry with them 
at the very idea, and her interest turned to indignation, and 
then into sorrow. She was so lonely, so very lonely ; she 
despaired of seeing Madeline and Ruth ; she was sure the 
strange lady was not Mrs Carter ; the room was gloomy, the 
garden without beauty and, if she was never to see anything 
beyond, she might as well be kept in prison. Her heart be- 
came very heavy, and her memoiy wandered back to the while 
house, and the happy hours she had spent there with her dear 
mamma. If she were living it would have been different ; no 
one then could have behaved harshly to her, and sent her to 
school against her will ; and there would have been some one to 
love her, which she tried to believe Lady Catharine did not. 
Alice tried to believe it, but she did not do so really. All the 
kindness — even fondness — which had been shown her before 
her disobedience was discovered, proved the contrary. Desolate 
and unhappy though she was, and angry with every one about 
her, Alice knew that the cause of all lay in herself ; she had not 
used her advantages properly, and now they were taken from 
her ; and who was to blame ? The trial of self-reproach is 
very hard to bear, and though Alice did not condemn herself 
as others might have done, she yet had nothing to look back 
upon with comfort when she remembered the steps by which 
she had brought herself into her present position. The first 
little wish, the first yielding to a slight temptation, the con- 
tinued deceit, and then the falsehood — that was the shame. If 
Lady Catharine had told, her character was marked. Perhaps 
the children in the garden knew it ; perhaps they saw her, and 
did not wish to speak to her. If they did not observe her^ 


170 


LANETON PARSONAGE 


Alice might have recollected that there was One who did ; and 
she might have wondered how it was that the idea of the con- 
tempt of a fellow- creature should be so much more dreadful to 
bear than the certainty of the wrath of God. Alice did not cry, 
she was too proud ; she did not choose that any one should 
observe how wretched she was ; but she pushed her chair back 
from the window, so that she might not be seen, and, fixing her 
eyes upon the opposite wall, which was hung with large maps, 
awaited the return of the lady whom she rightly supposed was 
to be her future governess. The waiting was longer than she 
had expected ; it was growing dusk, and she heard the children 
in the garden declare that they must go in. Alice dreaded 
their approach ; she could not think what she should say to 
them. They did not, however, run in suddenly through the 
window, as she had feared, but, one by one, disappeared 
through a door, and directly afterwards she heard their cheerful 
voices as they went up-stairs to take off their bonnets. The 
time became now very long, for every one appeared to have 
forgotten her. She had heard a knock and ring at the front 
door, and there had been a little movement in a distant part of 
the house. Could Lady Catharine be departing without saying 
good-bye ? It would be too cruel. Alice even thought she 
must go and see ; but she did not know her way, and the dark- 
ness was increasing, and perhaps she should meet some one — a 
servant or one of the girls. No, it was better to remain patiently 
where she was, however uncomfortable she might be. There 
was a sound of laughter outside the room ; they were coming 
certainly — the strange girls. Alice shrank back into her corner, 
and, a few moments afterwards, a little troop of them entered. 
They did not notice her ; and, to her consternation, some of 
them began talking about her, wondering what she was like, 
what class she would be put into, and whether she would be as 
nice a girl as one who was just gone. ‘ No, no,’ was the 
general exclamation ; ‘ she can’t be that — no one can be like 
Adelaide.’ 

‘ I shan’t care about her,’ said one. 

‘ I don’t think I shall much fancy her,’ said another. 

‘ I don’t think Alices are ever good for much,’ said a third ; 
‘ there was Alice Horner — what a tease she was ! ’ 

Alice Lennox felt ready to sink to the ground as she listened. 
She did not see that they were speaking without thought, from 
a mere prejudice ; and her conscience whispered that, if they 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


171 


did not expect to like her, they must have quite sufficient cause. 
* Dawson, where is Dawson ? why does not she bring candles ? ' 
suggested one more steady than the rest. The mention of 
candles recalled the wandering attention of all, and immediately 
there commenced a discussion of the different lessons ; what 
had been done, and what remained to do, and whether it was 
worth while to begin anything before tea. Alice thought she 
heard the name of Mrs Carter ; but the hubbub of voices pre- 
vented her from clearly distinguishing. ‘ Come, young ladies, 
the table must be cleared,’ exclaimed a rather authoritative 
voice ; and the same sombre-looking person, whom Alice had 
before seen, appeared with a tray, on which were placed four 
candles. The sudden light discovered the unsuspected inmate 
of the room ; and, with a look of confusion, all stood motion- 
less and silent. Alice did not dare advance ; she believed that 
the girls looked upon her with contempt ; and they, on their 
part, felt shocked at the observations which must have been 
overheard ; they did not venture to be civil, and the pause 
which ensued was most awkward ; so awkward that Alice could 
not bear it, and burst into tears. ‘ What shall we do ? pray 
speak — say something ; we are very sorry,’ was whispered 
around. ‘ Hush ! hark ! Mrs Carter is coming,’ said a lady- 
like, dark-haired girl, the eldest* of the party. They turned to 
the door with a feeling of great relief : Mrs Carter was the only 
person who could help them out of their difficulty. The dark- 
haired girl advanced to meet her, but drew back ; Mrs Carter 
entered the room, but not alone. Lady Catharine Hyde pre- 
ceded her, and behind her came a gentleman and two little girls. 
Alice saw them, and sprang forwards : ‘ Madeline !’ ‘ Ruth !’ 
‘ Alice ! ’ were the mutual exclamations ; and in the delight of 
the meeting the dread of strangers was unfelt. ‘It is Mrs 
Carter’s school, Alice,’ said Lady Catharine, in a tone of the 
deepest tenderness. ‘ God grant you may be good and happy 
here ! ’ Alice’s spirit was subdued ; she was too satisfied at 
finding her doubts relieved to be proud, and looking up into 
Lady Catharine’s face, whilst she pointed to the girls who were 
standing round the table, she said, in a low voice, ‘ Don’t they 
all know about it ?’ 

‘ No one knows, my love,’ replied Lady Catharine, drawing 
her aside, ‘ except Mrs Carter : you have a new life before you, 
Alice ; shall it be like the past ? ’ Alice’s voice failed her as 
she strove to answer ; but the heartiness with which she re- 


172 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


turned Lady Catharine’s kiss showed how sincerely, at that 
moment, she desired to amend. 

‘ They will be friends soon,’ said Mrs Carter, kindly, ob- 
serving the shy glances which passed on both sides between the 
new acquaintances. The dark-haired girl once more ventured 
to approach, and taking Alice’s hand, she said — ‘ It was so 
foolish just now, we did not know you were there ; I hope you 
don’t think we meant it.’ Alice’s shyness had vanished in the 
presence of her former playfellows ; and, though still retaining 
some doubts, her smile proved that she did not mean to be un- 
forgiving ; she looked round for Ruth and Madeline, feeling 
that from having arrived first she had a sort of right to intro- 
duce them. They were standing by their papa, grasping his 
hands, as if afraid he would escape. ‘ My darlings, I must 
go,’ he whispered. 

‘ Not yet, surely, not yet,’ said Mrs Carter, overhearing the 
last words ; ‘ tea is just ready.’ 

‘ I am afraid it cannot be ; and Lady Catharine has kindly 
offered to take me back to town in her carriage.’ 

Mrs Carter looked disappointed, and said that she had cal- 
culated upon their company for the whole evening. Madeline’s 
eyes were raised with an eager petition of entreaty, but Ruth 
could not look up. The sorrow, which the amusement of 
the journey had diverted, w’as gathered together for the parting 
hour. Mr Clifford stooped to kiss them, and bless them with 
a father’s blessing. What he said was short and simple, but 
the thoughts which were in his heart were deep and unutter- 
able. He was leaving his children weak, sinful, and ignorant ; 
what had he not to fear ? but he was leaving also ‘ the mem- 
bers of Christ, the children of God, the inheritors of the king- 
dom of heaven ; ’ wherefore should he not trust ? 

^ It will be Christmas soon, papa, won’t it } ’ said Madeline. . 
Mr Clifford assured her that the time would pass more rapidly 
than she could at all imagine. ‘ And that will be a happy 
meeting for us all, we hope,’ observed Lady Catharine, as she 
approached with Alice. Mr Clifford held out his hand to Alice, 
and said a few affectionate words, which satisfied her completely. 
He had never looked or spoken thus since the day of his unsuc- 
cessful conversation, and she felt now that he had forgiven her. 

‘ To-morrow, even, will be a happier day than this,’ said Mrs 
Carter, as she observed the distress which Mr Clifford could not 
entirely conceal. 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


173 


* Worse for me/ he replied, half laughing : ‘ but I have no 
fears for them. And now, good-bye.' He withdrew his hand 
forcibly from Ruth’s, once more pressed his lips to his children’s 
foreheads, and, not daring to trust himself with another look, 
hastened from the room. 

Lady Catharine saw that the dreaded moment of separation 
was come. ‘ My own Alice 1 my precious child ! ’ she said, ‘ I 
must not stay.’ 

It was all but a mother’s affection which spoke, and Alice 
felt how truly Lady Catharine was her friend. There was a 
bitter pang of self-reproach in her heart, as she whispered, 
‘ Can you forgive it all ? ’ 

‘ Forgive ! fully, entirely, as if it had never been,’ was the 
reply ; ‘ only let me hear that you are trying to do right.’ 
Alice threw her arms around Lady Catharine’s neck, received 
one long kiss, and they parted. 

Mrs Carter followed Lady Catharine and Mr Clifford. The 
door was closed, and three children were left to the society of 
their new friends, and the commencement of their school life. 

How that life was spent, and what effects it had upon their 
characters, this is not the place to tell ; but at some future 
period, if time and opportunity should be granted, it is probable 
that something more may be made known of the after years of 
Alice Lennox, and the twin sisters. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


SUNDAY in London and at school ! It has not a very cheer- 



ful sound. Sunday seems a day especially meant for home, 
and pleasant country walks, and churches where there are as 
many poor people as rich. We should not like to see the shops 
open and business going on, but still it is rather dull to look upon 
closed windows ; and when persons drive by in their carriages 
we are apt to say that they had better give rest to their horses 
and servants ; and if the streets are silent, we think that it is 
gloomy and unnatural. So at least it is to persons who have 
not been much in London. Sunday makes them long for the 
country more than any other day ; but after a time, if God has 
so ordered it that we should live there, our feelings become very 


1/4 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


different ; then we see that wherever there are churches and 
clergymen there also is a home ; and when we kneel down to 
pray in the crowded congregations, it is as pleasant to think of 
the hundreds and hundreds who are praying with us, using the 
very same words in the churches close at hand, as it would be 
to look through the window of a little country church into the 
deep blue sky and be reminded that the holy angels perhaps 
are leaving their glorious worlds to join with us, sinners though 
we are, in worshipping and praising God. A holy and a thank- 
ful heart can be holy and thankful everywhere. And so in the 
difference between school and home. Habit, and a good, 
obedient, cheerful temper, will enable us to find happiness 
under all circumstances ; and when Ruth Clifford sat down to 
her desk in the back school-room, one warm sunny afternoon, 
after the morning service and an early dinner, the recollection 
of home, instead of making her sad, only gave her a thrill of 
joy as she thought how delightful it would be, when the holi- 
days came, to return there. 

Ruth was altered since we last knew her ; she was nearly 
three years older ; taller, therefore, less like a child in face and 
figure ; less shy, and more inclined to give her opinion. Her 
voice was still very quiet and her manner very gentle, but chil- 
dren of her owm age were a little afraid of her — that is, when 
they had done anything wrong ; and girls older than herself 
respected her, and allowed her to be with them, and even some- 
times consulted her. Twins though they were, it was difficult 
to believe that Ruth and Madeline were of the same age, and 
still more difficult to believe that Alice was the eldest of the 
three. Ruth sat by herself this afternoon, her head leaning 
upon her hand, a copy-book before her, and a Bible with refer- 
ences by her side. It was open at the twentieth chapter of 
Exodus. She was going to find out all the passages in which 
anything is said of the giving of the Ten Commandments to 
the Israelites after they were brought out of Egypt, the land of 
bondage. Ruth was fond of finding out texts, and especially 
she liked writing them out neatly. Her copy-book was con- 
sidered the pattern one of the school — no blots, no mistakes, 
and the handwriting particularly free, and yet easily to be read. 
Madeline had the same task, and Alice and one or two others 
about their age. Madeline’s desk was the opposite one to 
Ruth’s, but in the same set ; there were four together. The 
sisters had never been separated since they first came to school. 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


^75 


Once it was proposed that they should be, but Madeline cried 
and Ruth looked unhappy, and Mrs Carter did not insist upon 
it. Now that they were thrown more into the world, the pre- 
cious tie of sisterhood was become dearer to them than ever. 
Madeline’s reverence for Ruth had increased. This was very 
natural when even the elder girls took notice of her, and thought 
much of her cleverness and good conduct. Madeline’s mind 
was rather wandering this afternoon. It takes a long time to 
cure a habit of inattention. She turned round on her stool 
and put her hand upon the shoulder of Alice, who was seated 
just behind her, and said — 

‘ Alice, do come and help me if you have finished.’ 

‘ But I have not, I have a good many more to find,’ replied 
Alice, without looking up. 

Madeline went to peep over Alice’s shoulder. 

* Alice, I do think you have a good fit this afternoon.’ 

‘ That ’s more than you have, Maddy,’ said a sharp voice. 

Madeline laughed. The speaker was a keen, black-eyed, 
shrewd girl, apparently older than Madeline, who was one of 
the four occupants of Alice’s set of desks. 

‘ What makes you work so hard, Alice.?’ continued Madeline; 
‘we are not to show our books till the evening.’ Alice still 
went on. ‘Then I must come to you, Clara;’ and Madeline 
went round to the other side. ‘ I want some one to tell me 
how many verses we have to write of this chapter.’ 

‘ You may find out that without peeping,’ said Clara Man- 
ners, closing her book. 

Madeline seemed disconcerted. Just then a sigh was heard, 
and Clara’s nearest neighbour, a sickly, flaxen-haired little girl, 
but with something old and melancholy in her face, said, in a 
subdued voice, ‘ I would help you, Madeline, if I could, but I 
can’t do my own.’ 

‘Can’t you?’ replied Madeline, good-naturedly. ‘What is 
the matter?’ 

She sat down on the half of the stool, Janet Harding moving 
to make room for her. ‘I am so slow in writing, Maddy, I 
shall never have finished.’ 

‘ Never ! that is a very long day; let me see’ — and Madeline 
took the pen from Janet’s hand., ‘How you jog !’ exclaimed 
Clara, impatiently, and Alice raised her eyes as if disturbed ; 
but Madeline was too pleased to be helping any one out of a 
difficulty to attend to them. She wrote all that Janet wished, 


176 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


and assisted in finding out the other references, showing plainly 
that her own question had been an idle one. 

‘ That is very kind,^ said Janet, when Madeline laid down the 
pen — ‘ no one would have helped me except you.^ 

‘ No one ! O Janet ! you will not say so when you have 
been here longer.^ 

‘ But I shall — do you know, Maddy, I think school is just 
like the house of bondage that Mrs Carter was telling us about 
before she sent us in to write our texts.’ 

‘ I never, in my life, knew any one with such strange notions 
as Janet Harding,’ exclaimed Clara, pushing aside her copy- 
book, and speaking so loudly as to attract general notice. 

‘ Ruth, what do you think she says ? She declares that school 
is the house of bondage.’ 

‘ Like it,’ observed Janet, quickly ; ‘ and it is like it, is it not, 
Ruth ? because we have such hard tasks.’ 

Ruth listened with rather an air of satisfaction, perhaps from 
finding herself appealed to as an authority, and then answered 
in her soft, sweet voice, that she did not think Mrs Carter in- 
tended it to be a house of bondage, and that it was quite neces- 
sary to do tasks, because if they did not, they should all be 
ignorant when they grew up. 

‘ That is all very well for Ruth to say,’ continued Janet, re- 
turning to Madeline as her only hope of support, ‘ because she 
is clever j but, you know, I am not at all clever.’ 

‘ O Janet ! how foolish ! why you can do just as well as 
any of us when you try ; you don’t write as quickly, that is all.’ 

Janet put on a disconsolate air, and answered, ‘ I should like 
to know what a house of bondage is, if it is not school. My 
aunt said, I should hate school, and I do.’ 

Just then the door opened, and several girls who had been 
reading with Mrs Carter came in, and seating themselves at the 
long table, began to talk over what they had been doing. This 
interrupted the former conversation, and, for a time, heads were 
again bent down, and pens busy. Silence at the desks was first 
broken by Alice, who, pushing back her stool, and shutting her 
copy-book, exclaimed triumphantly, ‘ There, I have done now ; 
I don’t care what happens to any one.’ 

‘ Kind — I must say,’ observed Clara ; ‘ and what a pace you 
must have written at, Alice ! Why, you have finished before 
Ruth.’ 

‘ Oh ! because Ruth is so slov/ and neat. I never could take 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


177 


the trouble she does. Who would like a piece of cake t ’ And 
as she spoke, Alice lifted up the lid of her desk, and took out 
half a plum-cake. A little party gathered round her, and a 
good deal of laughing and talking went on, which made one or 
two who were graver or more busy cry ‘ Hush T and induced 
even Ruth to look up from her occupation. 

Madeline was still engaged with Janet Harding, asking her 
the questions which Mrs Carter was likely to put when the 
tasks were shown ; but she could not refrain from joining occa- 
sionally in the merriment, and with the Bible before her, and 
in the act of listening to very serious words, she did not hesi- 
tate to talk, as she would have done under ordinary circum- 
.stances. The mirth served only to increase Janet’s melancholy, 
and, in a reproachful tone, she said, ‘ You arc all happy but me, 
Madeline.’ 

^ Don’t fret, Janet, dear ; you will be happy too, by and by,’ 
was Madeline’s answer, and then she stretched out her hand for 
some more cake, and was as much amused as before. Janet 
sighed, and said no more. 

All this time Ruth had continued writing steadily, scarcely 
raising her eyes, and only speaking when she w^as spoken to; 
but now coming round to Madeline, she said, ‘ Cannot I help 
Janet, and you go and finish j'our own texts, Maddy.^’ 

Madeline coloured, for there was something of a reproof in 
Ruth’s tone. She left Janet, and sat down again to her own 
desk. 

‘ Now, Janet, what is it ? where are you ?’ asked Ruth. 

Janet pointed to the place. There was a blot, just where 
Madeline had left off writing, at which Ruth’s neat eye w'as 
offended. ‘ You should learn to write for yourself, Janet,’ she 
said, ‘ and then you might take care for yourself. How could 
Madeline be so stupid !’ 

Janet w'as abashed ; her sorrowful eyes grew more sorrowful, 
and a tear dropped upon the page of her book. 

‘ Out ! out ! all directly,’ cried a merry young voice ; ‘ we 
are to go into the garden for half an hour, and we’ll have to 
show our texts before tea, because Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard 
don’t like having them after evening seiwice.’ 

‘ Tiresome ! tormenting ! ’ exclaimed Clara, Alice, and a few 
others ; and little Jessie O’Neile was required to repeat the 
order a second time. 

‘ What made Mrs Carter say that, Jessie?’ asked Clara. 

M 


>78 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


^ I don’t know ; but Miss Barnard declared there had been 
plenty of time for the texts.’ 

‘ Miss Barnard is — so/ said Clara, crossing her fingers. 

Janet Harding gave a glance of astonishment, and Ruth said, 
‘ For shame !’ but others, who were near, laughed. One of the 
elder girls, however, came up, and, in an authoritative voice, 
ordered the books to be put away. Madeline was the last to 
obey. She was scribbling ; not writing merely, but scribbling — - 
as fast as her fingers could move, making great blunders and 
not a few blots. 

‘ Dear Ruth !’ she said, looking up piteously at her sister as 
she was leaving the room, Ruth returned directly, but decided 
that it was impossible to finish them. Mrs Carter would be 
angry if they did not go out directly. 

‘ What shall I do ? Dear me ! there is another blot — do 
some one give me a bit of blotting paper.’ 

Only one inmate of the room remained besides the sisters. 
This was a very lady-like girl, apparently between fifteen and 
sixteen years of age. Some may perhaps remember to have 
heard of her before, when Alice made her first unhappy appear- 
ance at Mrs Carter’s, and one of the little party offered an 
apology to her for the rest. Then Mary Vernon was the eldest 
in the room ; now she was the eldest in the school, and the ob- 
ject of respect, of admiration, and, to some, of envy. She was 
an only child, the heiress of a large fortune, idolised by her 
father, petted by the aunt who supplied a mother’s place to her, 
and just about to leave school. Who could be happy if Mary 
Vernon was not ? Madeline seldom came in Mary’s way, and 
considered her as a grown-up young lady, very far superior to 
herself, but Ruth had lately become more intimate with her, for, 
as was before said, Ruth was often admitted now to be with 
those older than herself ; and frequently on a Saturday after • 
noon, when they sat together at work in ditterent parties, whilst 
one read aloud for the amusement of the rest, Ruth would leave 
her own seat and beg to be allowed to stay with the ‘ old girls,’ 
as they were generally called, professing to like their grave books 
much better than lighter ones. In many ways Mary had been 
kind to Ruth — to whom indeed was she not kind ? — and seeing 
now that both the sisters were uncomfortable, she went up to 
ask what was the matter. Madeline pointed to her text-book, 
scribbled and dirty, and most unfit for Mrs Carter’s inspection. 
What was to be done ? 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


179 


* Nothing,’ so Mary and Ruth agreed — ‘nothing but tc go 
out as quickly as possible, and when the books were shown to 
own the truth without attempting an excuse.’ 

‘ I never will help others, I declare,’ exclaimed Madeline. 

‘ I always get into disgrace when I do.’ 

Something of an arch smile stole over Mary’s face, as if she 
could have given some good advice, but thought it better to 
defer it. 

‘ Dear Maddy,’ she said, in a compassionate voice, ‘ I wish 
with all my heart I could help you.’ 

Madeline thanked her, but was not much comforted, and went 
to prepare for going out. There was a raised, broad, gravel 
walk, at the bottom of the garden — a favourite resort of the 
elder girls. Here they walked up and down, especially on a 
Sunday afternoon in spring or summer, when they went to 
church in the evening and not in the afternoon ; and without 
any particular rule, it was generally understood that the younger 
ones were not to go there unless they were invited. Ruth 
paused when she reached the spot. She was only just begin- 
ning to feel that her position in the school was becoming higher 
— that she was not quite a child. 

‘Won’t you come.?’ said Mary, kindly, and Ruth only hesi- 
tated a moment to be certain that Madeline had a companion ; 
and when she saw her occupied with Janet Harding, was but 
too happy to be made one of the senior party. Alice and Clara 
Manners had collected around them the same noisy set that 
had been with them in the school-room ; and Madeline and 
Janet were too much out of spirits to join them. Janet was 
thinking of her home, which she had left but a few weeks before, 
for the first time in her life, after having been indulged till her 
naturally good disposition was much spoiled. Madeline had 
before her a vision of the blotted text-book, and Mrs Carter’s 
grave look of displeasure, and her sister. Miss Barnard’s severe 
reprimand. 

‘ That Clara Manners should be called 111 Manners,’ said 
Janet. ‘ I never saw any one so rude.’ 

Madeline agreed that she could not endure her. After two 
years at school, Madeline was but little guarded in her remarks, 
and professed her likings and dislikings as vehemently as 
others. 

^ How she caught me up about the house of bondage !’ con- 
inued Janet. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


1 8o 

‘But, Janet,’ said Madeline, ‘you do say very odd things 
sometimes.’ 

‘ That was not odd, that I can see. Mrs Carter told us 
bondage meant slavery — being made to do hard things, and not 
able to get away, and that is just what it is here.’ 

This was very true, yet Madeline remembered what her papa 
had often taught her, that the house of bondage was a type or 
figure of the evil condition in which ail men are born ; when 
being slaves to sin they have no prospect of ever reaching 
heaven, the land of promise ; and she knew that for Christians 
there is now no house of bondage, since they are delivered from 
that state at their baptism, and for their Saviour’s sake have 
the hope of one day being perfectly happy, unless like the 
Israelites they forfeit their blessings by wilful sin. Madeline 
had never thought of school as being like anything she had read 
of in the Bible, and Janet’s remarks confused her. She put her 
hand up to her forehead, as if by rubbing it her ideas would 
become clearer. 

‘ I don’t think it can be such tasks as we have, which Mrs 
Carter meant,’ she continued ; ‘ because, you know, Janet, that 
we have help, and the Israelites had not. They must have been 
much worse off than we are.’ 

‘ Weil ! I don’t know about that,’ replied Janet ; ‘ I know I 
hate school, and I know it is just like the house of bondage, and 
I shall always call it so.’ This sentence was spoken rather 
loudly, and Janet did not see that Clara Manners and Alice were 
close to her. 

‘ At it still ! I declare,’ exclaimed Clara, laughing. ‘ What ! 
have you not finished that matter yet.?’ 

Janet’s manner changed in an instant ; she shrank into her- 
self, looked frightened, and would have moved on, but Clara 
caught hold of her. ‘ Now, Janet, you shall stay and talk to 
us a little.’ 

‘ No, Clara, she shall not,’ said Madeline, firmly, and trying 
to push Clara’s hand away. 

‘ Oh ! that is it, is it.?’ exclaimed Clara ; ‘we will soon see 
Vvhich is the strongest.’ She grasped poor Janet’s thin arm till 
the colour was in her cheek from pain, and then continued, 
‘Just say that you will answer my question, Janet ; and I will 
let go.’ 

‘ I won’t, if you keep me here all day,’ said Janet, though 
her countenance showed how much she was suffering. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


i8i 

* That is right ; for shame, Clara ! ’ exclaimed both Alice and 
Madeline, whilst little Jessie O’Neile ran to the elder girls to 
make the usual complaint, that Clara Manners was teasing 
Janet Harding. 

Mary Vernon was the person Jessie appealed to, for Mary 
was the redresser of all grievances, and by general consent had 
been chosen a sort of judge. Indeed the title was. become 
almost as natural as her own name ; and the office being found 
very useful, it was settled that when Mary left school another 
judge should be appointed in her place. Mary, however, was 
slow in giving her opinion ; she liked to hear what was to be 
said on both sides ; and made a point of never expressing any 
feeling when a case was first brought to her. However in- 
dignant she might be, the anger was kept to herself ; but one 
of her companions, who had no occasion to be particularly 
cautious, was not only vehement in declaring that Clara Manners 
was the torment of the school, and that Mrs Carter ought to 
!mow it, but seemed inclined to interpose herself. This was 
Anna Grant, a girl about a year younger than Mary, and con- 
siderably shorter and stouter in appearance. Anna had been 
several years with Mrs Carter, Mary only three. Anna was 
remarkably clever, Mary only moderately so. Anna was active 
in her movements, and always spoke with an air of authority. 
Mary was slow and quiet, and used her office of judge so gently 
that it seemed a matter of indifference to her whether she ruled 
or not. There were different opinions in the school, at one time, 
a.s to who would make the best judge, and Anna was nearly 
certain that when Mary went away at Midsummer, she should 
be chosen. Of all things Anna liked to rule, and in the 
prospect of her future dignity she could not resist putting herself 
forward now and then. ‘ Let me go,' she said, stepping before 
Mary ; ‘ I will soon set it all to rights.' ‘ Nonsense, Anna, how 
can you interfere with what does not concern you ? Do let Mary 
manage it her own way.' Anna drew back, more from the con- 
sciousness of being in the wrong, than from any particular 
respect to the interrupting party, one of two sisters, Florence 
and Harriet Trevelyan, who, from being more remarkable for a 
very rapid way of speaking, and a fondness for fine names, fine 
people, and fine dresses, than for anything else, were often 
turned into ridicule, and sometimes, to their great annoyance, 
called Hurry and Flurry. Ruth seeing that Madeline was 
engaged in the quarrel, if such it could be called, followed Mary 


ZAXETON PARSONAGE 


182 

Vernon to the spot where Clara, having at length been persuaded 
to release her hold, stood laughing. ‘ It is all over now,’ said 
Clara, carelessly, as Mary came up. ‘ There is no occasion 
for any one to interfere. It was only a little fun, but Janet is 
such a poor thing, she is only fit to sit up in a high chair and 
eat soap.’ Madeline was beginning an excuse for Janet, but 
Mary Vernon recommended silence. Every one knew, she 
said, that it was of no use to argue with Clara Manners ; but 
there should be no tyranny in the school as long as she could 
prevent it, and if Clara would not take warning in time, she 
would most certainly speak to Mrs Carter. Clara knew that 
this was much more than a threat. What Mary said she 
would do, she always did ; and though she pretended to be 
indifferent, she walked away in reality very sulky. 

‘ I must say one thing to you,’ continued Mary, addressing 
those who were near ; ‘ I am sure you induce Clara to 
be worse by joining with her. Very often she would not 
be half as provoking as she is, if you did not make a joke 
of it; and then when she begins she does not know how to 
leave off.’ 

Alice felt as if the reproof was meant for her. She had been 
with Clara all the afternoon; not that she liked her, she was 
really fonder of Ruth than of any one else in tlie school, but 
her spirits carried her away. 

‘ And I thought, Alice,’ said Ruth, turning to her, ‘ that you 
meant to tiy very hard to-day to be steady ?’ 

Alice blushed, and appeared annoyed for the moment ; and 
Mary saw, what Ruth did not, that Alice did not like her private 
resolutions, told in confidence, to be mentioned openly. 

‘ Well,’ said Mary, good-naturedly, ‘ it is all over now. I 
daresay Clara will leave off being troublesome by and by.’ 

‘ But it is not all over,’ observed Ruth. ‘ Look, Mary, how 
Janet Harding is crying still.’ 

Alice laughed a little, and said it was quite true that Janet 
was a great baby in some things, and could not bear a joke, and 
that was the reason Clara made fun of her. ‘ And the fuss is all 
about nothing,’ she continued. ‘ It began, Mary, because Janet 
said that school was like the house of bondage, and you know 
one could not help laughing at that.’ 

Ruth listened with some interest to hear the answer ; but, 
instead of answering, Mary went up to the spot where Madeline 
and Janet were sitting together, and spoke very kindly to Janet, 


LANE TON PARSON A GE, 183 

begging her not to cry any more, and promising to endeavour to 
prevent Clara from tormenting her. 

‘ It is not that I care for,’ exclaimed Janet, and her dull gray 
eyes grew quite bright with eagerness. ‘ I don’t care for Clara, 
nor Alice, nor any of them ; they may all laugh at me, if they 
like, all day long ; but I want to be at home, and to see my 
own dear mamma. I knew I should be miserable at school.’ 

‘Well, Janet, it must be very hard to you to be here,’ said 
Mary, compassionately, ‘ harder than it would be for a great 
many ; but I am almost certain you will be happy when you are 
used to it ; and, at all events, school will not last for ever.’ 

‘ That was what I said,’ observed Madeline. ‘ I told Janet 
that Ruth, and Alice, and I, were very unhappy at first, and 
thought the ways strange till we got into them ; but I don’t mind 
school at all now.’ 

Janet still went on crying with a determination which seemed 
to refuse all comfort. 

‘And Janet says, too,’ pursued Madeline, ‘that writing out 
the texts made her unhappy, because she thinks we are all like 
the Israelites in Egypt.’ 

A smile stole over Mary Vernon’s face, but she checked any 
light thoughts, and replied gravely, ‘ that she should have said 
they were much more like the Israelites in the wilderness.’ 

‘ They were very unhappy,’ said Janet, trying to stop her 
tears. 

‘ They were only unhappy when they did wrong, Janet, and 
broke the laws.’ 

‘ I don’t break Mrs Carter’s laws,’ said Janet. ‘ I always try 
to keep them.’ 

‘ And Mrs Carter is not angry with you,’ continued Mary ; 
‘ and if you think it hard to be laughed at, only remember the 
hardships which the Israelites had to bear when they were 
travelling. But God would have supported and helped them, 
and brought them safely to tlie promised land ; so they had no 
cause to be miserable, except from their own fault, and it is the 
same with us.’ 

Janet seemed more inclined to be comforted than before. As 
long as she could think there would be an end to her troubles, 
she could bear them pretty well. Mary’s way of talking also 
suited her. It was the way to which she had been accustomed; 
for her parents, though they spoiled her by indulgence, were of 
a very religious turn of mind, and accustomed to bring examples 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


184 

or illustrations for every case from the Bible ; and when Janet 
had once possessed herself with the idea that school was like 
the Egyptian house of bondage, it did really seem so to her, 
and she had the same longing desire to be free which a prisoner 
might have. 

‘Then you really think it is like being in the wilderness ^ she 
asked, looking up at Mary, and drying her eyes. 

‘ Papa says sometimes to us that it is,’ interrupted Made- 
line ; ‘ but then he tells us it will be the same for our whole 
lives.’ 

Mary Vernon became very thoughtful as Madeline spoke. 
She was soon going to leave school, and immediately afterwards 
she was to be confirmed. It seemed as if she were really about 
to brave the difficulties of the wilderness — at least she had been 
warned that she was — that her life from henceforth would be 
more dangerous than it had ever yet been. Sometimes Mary 
could not believe it. Home was so happy, her friends were so 
kind, her future prospects so bright : but this day was Sunday, 
and she had been reading with Mrs Carter, and talking seriously. 
It was not to be wondered at that Madeline’s remark should 
make her thoughtful ; she did not, however, speak particularly 
of herself, and only answered, that she had been told the same ; 
but that Mrs Carter once advised her not to trouble herself about 
the future, but to try and do right at present. 

‘And it is easier to keep the rules than the Ten Command- 
ments, is it not, Mary.?’ asked Madeline. 

‘ O Maddy !’ exclaimed Janet, now really laughing; ‘why, 
the Ten Commandments are about stealing and murdering.’ 

Mary seemed a little puzzled what answer to make, and just 
then the school bell summoned them to the house, and fixed all 
Madeline’s thoughts upon her blotted text-book. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

M rs CARTER’S private room — the study — was the same 
into which Alice had been shown on the first day of her 
school life. No one could doubt that it was a comfortable 
room, nicely furnished, fitted with books, and always neat, but 
for some reason or other it was seldom entered without dread. 


LANE TON PARSONA GE. 185 

Either there was a reproof expected, or an exercise to be shown, 
or a lesson to be said. Suspense and uncertainty seemed to 
belong to it naturally, and though Mrs Carter was kind in her 
manner, ever ready to make allowance, and when she did find 
fault, doing it in the gentlest way, no one could help feeling this. 
Ruth whispered, as she stood at the door with her neat text- 
book, that her hand trembled ; it always did when she went 
to the study. The whisper was to Madeline, who was too 
frightened to answer, but Alice spoke for her, declaring that 
she did not care for anything if Miss Barnard was not there, and 
Clara had seen her giving out the Sunday books in the outer 
school-room. ‘ Come in, my dears,’ was heard in an encourag- 
ing voice. Ruth quite laughed at finding herself unable to open 
the door, but Clara Manners stretched out her hana boldly, and 
they entered ; Janet Harding keeping close to Madeline, who, 
she believed, was going to suffer for good-nature to her. But 
Sunday was not a day on which Mrs Carter liked to make any 
one suffer if she could help it. The book received but a mild 
censure, much more mild than Madeline felt it deserved, and 
she was just thinking how happily she had escaped, when Mrs 
Carter’s gentle ‘ Stay, my dear, I wish to speak to you,’ brought 
back all her first alarms. ‘ And Ruth, too,’ continued Mrs 
Carter : ‘ sit down, my dears, and the rest may go.’ It was 
Mrs Carter’s very quietness which was so alarming ; her slow 
way of speaking, and deep, low tone. It was said sometimes, 
that if she would only be very angry it would not be half as 
awful. This, however, was the opinion of the more careless 
portion of the community. Mrs Carter was much beloved by 
the little children ; Jessie O’Neile and Ellen Hastings were as 
fond of her as of their own grandmammas ; and Mary Vernon 
could not bear to be reminded that she must so soon leave her. 

‘ I have been wishing to say a few words to you both,’ began Mrs 
Carter, ‘ because I think it may be of use ’ — then came a pause, 
and the sisters looked at each other, wondering what was to 
follow — ‘ of use to you all — to yourselves and your companions.’ 
Then it was not a reproof for the blotted book — Madeline was 
much relieved. ‘ You have been with me now nearly three 
years, and on the whole, I have had great reason to be 
satisfied with you — with you, Ruth, particularly.’ A second 
pause : Ruth’s head was involuntarily drawn up a little higher, 
but Madeline was more vexed at the distinction than pleased 
with the praise. ‘ Mary Vernon is to leave me very soon/ con- 


i86 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


tinued Mrs Carter, ‘ and you know what a great loss she will be. 
She has done more towards keeping order and good conduct 
in the school than any young person of her age, who has ever 
been under my care. When she is gone there will be no one 
to take her place.’ A proud thought glanced through Ruth’s 
mind. Could Mrs Carter imagine it possible for her to be like 
Mary ? But no, Mrs Carter knew Mary too well to expect to 
find all her steadiness and high principle in one so much younger. 
She merely wished to suggest that something might be done by 
every one, especially by those who, like Ruth and Madeline, had 
received particular advantages ; and Ruth was considerably dis- 
appointed when this long beginning ended with : ‘ but I think, 
my dears, that you may be of use amongst the little ones, if you 
will give yourselves the trouble ; and really make it a part of 
your duty to see that they do theirs.’ ‘ Amongst the little ones !’ 
This was not what Ruth desired. She said ‘ Yes,’ in a submis- 
sive manner, but nothing more. Madeline’s feelings were 
different. For the first time since she came to school, she saw 
that she was considered capable of being useful, and Mrs 
Carter’s very sweet smile, and the particularly kind way in 
which she addressed them, aroused her warm affections. To 
be spoken to in this way though she had been careless ! Even 
her own mamma could scarcely have done more. ‘ Now, 
Madeline,’ added Mrs Carter, ‘ I am most anxious about you. 
It is example which is the great thing always. If the younger 
children see you inattentive and thoughtless, bringing me such 
a book as this, for instance, ’ — and as Mrs Carter laid her hand 
upon the unfortunate text-book, Madeline’s cheeks became the 
colour of crimson — ‘ not all the warning and hints you can give 
them will be of any avail. They will never think you in earnest ; 
and it is being in earnest which makes persons attend to us, 
whether we are young or old.’ ‘ Indeed, I will try,’ exclaimed 
Madeline, eagerly, and at the moment it seemed to her that 
she could not help being in earnest for the rest of her life. 

Mrs Carter looked pleased, and said, ‘ God bless you, my 
love, and keep you in earnest always. He will keep you if you 
pray to Him. But, Madeline, can you tell me what it is which 
makes it so difficult to us to be in earnest ? ’ 

‘ Because we are wicked,’ replied Madeline. 

‘ Yes ; but that is not quite an answer to my question. 
Many persons, who are not what is generally called wicked, 
who do not commit great crimes, yet cannot be said to be in 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 1S7 

earnest. Ruth, what do we mean by being earnest in any- 
thing we undertake ? ’ 

‘ Setting ourselves to do it with all our hearts,’ replied 
Ruth. 

‘ Yes, giving ourselves up to it ; wishing for it constantly ; 
planning how we shall manage it. And we find that when per- 
sons set themselves in earnest to attain any object — to be rich 
or learned, for instance, they generally succeed. They have one 
great pursuit, and they devote themselves to it. But we are not 
naturally willing to do this in religion. We wish, perhaps, to 
serve God, but we also wish to follow our own wills. We for- 
get that we are told to have no other God but the God who 
made and redeemed us.’ 

Ruth ventured to say very timidly, ^ She supposed that meant 
it was wrong to worship idols.’ 

‘ That is one meaning,’ replied Mrs Carter ; ‘ but there is 
another, of more consequence to us, because we have been so 
well instructed from childhood that we are in little danger of 
becoming idolaters outw^ardly. Our danger is in our own 
hearts.’ 

‘ I thought that no English people were idolaters,’ said Made- 
line, speaking more boldly than Ruth. 

‘ 1 wish I could think so, too, Madeline,’ replied Mrs Carter ; 
‘ but when persons spend all their lives in striving to be rich — 
when they are covetous — we know from the Bible that they are 
idolaters ; because it is said there that “ Covetousness is 
idolatry.” And so again, if they care only for eating and drink- 
ing, the Bible says the same thing. Or if they desire to be 
thought much of for cleverness ; or to have high rank ; or, in 
fact, whatever they most seek for, that is their idol : they are as 
anxious for it, more anxious, rather, than for the favour of God, 
and this prevents their being in earnest in His service.’ 

Mrs Carter paused^and Ruth and Madeline supposed she would 
tell them they might go ; but after a few moments she added, 
‘ My dear children, I should like you to make some use of what 
I have said. You know your own feelings better than I can. 
Will you think what it is which you most wash for ; and when 
you say your prayers, ask of God to give you such a right spirit 
that you may have no other God but Him ; that is, that it may 
be your chief desire in all things to please Him ; and will you 
remember that the way in which you can especially please Him 
now, is by setting a good example } I think, without my telling 


i88 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE, 


you, you will be able to find out the different ways in which you 
may thus make yourselves useful, and show that you are in 
earnest ; and to-day being Sunday, you will have more time 
than usual to make right resolutions, and pray to God to assist 
you in keeping them.’ 

To make good resolutions, and pray that God would assist 
us in keeping them ! This is much more easily said than done 
at school. 

When Ruth and Madeline went back to their companions, 
they were assailed by numerous questions : ‘ Why were they 
detained ? ’ ‘ What did Mrs Carter want ’ ‘Was she 

angry ? ’ and the questions were so eager, and the din of voices 
was so confusing, that even a steady brain might have been 
distracted. The manner of the two sisters was not alike. 
Ruth said, with an indifferent air, ‘ that it was all nothing ; 
Mrs Carter only wished them to try and keep the little children 
in order when Mary Vernon was gone.’ 

Madeline sat down to her desk, and begged them to be quiet, 
necause she wanted to read. 

‘ There is no time for reading,’ obse'rved Alice; ‘ the tea-bell 
will ring in a minute ; you may just as well talk to us a little.’ 

‘ I had rather not, please, Alice,’ replied Madeline, gently. 

Alice looked at her in surprise. 

‘ But, Maddy, dear, there must be something the matter. Is 
it about the text-book.? was she angry .? ’ inquired Janet Hard- 
ing, with some anxiety. 

‘ It is nothing ; not about the text-book. Mrs Carter was 
not at all angry,’ replied Madeline. 

‘ But what is it ? there must be something the matter; do tell 
us,’ continued Alice. 

Poor Madeline closed her book, and rose from her seat. How 
she longed to be alone ! but for ten minutes — that she might 
only, as Mrs Carter had said, make good resolutions, and pray to 
God to assist her in keeping them. But there was the strict law 
forbidding her to go up-stairs, except at particular hours, or by 
express permission ; and Madeline could not bring herself to 
ask this permission. She was afraid that Mrs Carter would 
guess what was passing in her mind, and she was just beginning 
to be very shy and reserved about her religious feelings. There 
was a small room, generally known by the name of the dressing- 
room, on the ground floor, very near the school-room. Here 
were kept boxes and baskets, garden cloaks, old bonnets, See., 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


189 


and here she might be alone. She stopped for a few moments, 
that it might not seem as if she was angry, and then went out 
of the room. The dressing-room was empty, but she could not 
close the door or fasten it ; and she did not like to kneel, lest 
she might be discovered, Madeline did not fear that God 
would not accept her prayers unless she knelt. Her papa, 
though extremely particular about forms and reverence, had 
always taught her that it is the heart which God looks at ; and 
that if the forms are not in our power. He will accept the heart 
alone. She sat dowm on a trunk, and began to think. What 
was it she most wished for ? She could not at all tell. There 
were so many things — little pleasures, books, prizes, the holi- 
days ; and greater ones — to please her papa and mamma, and 
be loved by her companions. Her head became confused with 
thinking, but she turned to another subject. How could she be 
useful by setting a good example ? This was much more easily 
decided ; and Madeline, after considering the wrong things she 
was in the habit of doing, made good resolutions for the future. 
These resolutions were not made in a general way, such as ‘ I 
will try to do better,’ but in detail ; first as to herself — rising 
early, dressing quickly, setting to work directly afterwards, not 
speaking English in school, not reading story books, or eating 
apples and cakes by stealth in the lesson hours, and so on 
through the day ; and afterwards with regard to the particular 
points on which she knew her companions were neglectful. 
Madeline wished she could have determined what she most 
desired ; she was afraid it might be WTong not to do so ; but she 
need not have been afraid. It is a long time before we can 
understand what passes in our own hearts ; but when we pray 
sincerely, and try to'conquer our bad dispositions, we have good 
cause to hope we are not allowing ourselves to have any other 
God than the true God. And Madeline did pray. She stood 
and covered her face with her hands, and asked, in few and 
simple words, that God would forgive her all she had done 
wrong, and teach her to do better, and help her to be useful, 
for her Saviour’s sake. Conscience whispered she was right ; 
and amongst the cheerful voices and happy faces which were 
heard and seen as the party sat round the tea-table, none were 
happier or more cheerful than Madeline Clifford’s. 

Ruth also had received a warning. She had been told to 
question her own heart ; to inquire what it was she most wished 
for. She was silent at tea-time, and Mary Vernon imagined 


190 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


she must be thinking of her conversation with Mrs Carter. 
Ruth was thinking of it. Before tea was over, she had decided 
with regard to all her companions — whom they most sought to 
please — God, their fellow-creatures, or themselves. Only one 
individual was forgotten — herself. 

‘ Will you hand me the bread and butter,’ said Alice to 
Florence Trevelyan. 

The plate was' put before her, and she drew out a piece of 
crust which did not fall naturally to her share. Ruth watched 
her, and felt that self-indulgence was Alice’s idol. Alice ate the 
crust quickly, not wishing it to be noticed that she had helped 
herself unfairly. In her hurry, some butter fell on Florence 
Trevelyan’s pretty silk dress. Florence was extremely dis- 
concerted, spoke crossly, and made a fuss, till every one was 
uncomtortable. Dress was Florence’s idol. Presently, an 
accident of the same kind happened to Ruth herself, who 
was sitting on the other side of Alice. She kept her temper 
admirably ; rubbed the spot to take out the mark, without 
drawing attention to herself, and then was rewarded by hearing 
Alice say — 

‘ There is no one like Ruth after all ; she is never ill- 
tempered.’ 

Mrs Carter smiled and said, ‘ It was right to try early to bear 
annoyances patiently.’ 

The glow of pride and self-sufficiency which flushed Ruth’s 
face was taken for shyness at hearing herself praised. Ruth 
knew herself that she was shy : but why did she treasure up 
every word of praise to be thought over again and again ? 
Why did she not watch her heart as well as her outward 
actions ? The respect and admiration of her fellow-creatures 
was Ruth’s idol. 


CHAPTER XX. 

M onday was a French day. There were French lessons 
said to Miss Barnard before breakfast, and Monsieur 
Le Vergnier came at nine o’clock, and was occupied with dif- 
ferent classes till nearly one. Alice never liked a French day 
— Ruth did. Madeline did not care about it except when she 
had been idle, and then she was apt to wish, and wish aloud, 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


191 

that Miss Barnard, Monsieur Le Vergnier, and the writers of 
every grammar and vocabulary that had ever been heard of, 
were at the bottom of the sea. On this Monday, however, 
Madeline had no such wishes. She felt cordial even to Miss 
Barnard — a quiet, stiff, particular, middle-aged lady, who made 
a point of enforcing Mrs Carter^s rules more strictly than Mrs 
Carter herself, and appeared to have very little thought for any- 
thing that was going on beyond the routine of the school, and 
the careful performance of the monotonous duties which fell to 
her share in life. Madeline did not like Miss Barnard, and 
stood considerably in awe of her. It was with no slight plea- 
sure, therefore, that she saw a smile cross her face as the 
dialogue ' book was returned, and heard her say, ‘ Very well, 
Madeline, you have taken pains.^ Ruth often had such speeches 
made to her, but Madeline scarcely ever. 

‘You have your exercise ready for Monsieur, I daresay.?’ 
whispered Janet Harding, who was standing near, speaking a 
curious school-girl ‘patois,’ which few but those accustomed 
to it could understand. 

‘ Not quite ; I did not finish it on Saturday, but I shall make 
haste ;’ and Madeline sat down directly to her work. It had 
been one of her morning resolutions not to waste a minute’s 
time. Madeline wrote but a few words, when they were called 
in to prayers and breakfast ; but she was the first to return to 
business. The rest, in general, idled about under the excuse 
that it was not worth while to do anything before school actually 
began. Ruth was an exception. She took possession of the 
piano to practise. Alice was amongst the idlers ; and with her 
were Florence Trevelyan, Clara, and Janet Harding. Some- 
thing was said about Monsieur Le Vergnier’s accent. Florence 
declared it was bad ; Alice pronounced it good ; Clara did not 
think about it, but she took the opportunity of mimicking it ; 
and Janet Harding said, in her peculiarly melancholy tone, that 
Monsieur Le Vergnier spoke very like an aunt of hers who was 
brought up in France. There was no great sense or importance 
in the conversation, but from some cause or other they became 
rather excited. Florence was angry at being at all contradicted 
by Janet ; and Alice was pleased to find some one who would 
agree with her. Florence protested that Alice could know 
nothing about it, for she was extremely backward in French ; 
and Alice retaliated by reminding Florence of a speech of Miss 
Barnard’s that very morning ; tliat if Harriet and Florence only 


192 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


knew half as much about any one sensible subject as they did 
about dress, they would be extremely clever girls. The clock 
struck nine. Miss Barnard would come in in a minute ; and 
Monsieur Le Vergnier was always punctual. Still there were 
no preparations, and the angry tones grew louder. Ruth left 
off practising, and begged they would prepare their books. 
Alice was inclined to listen to her — she always was inclined to 
hearken to Ruth ; but Florence Trevelyan would have a last 
word, and then the case was put before Ruth. ‘ Did she think 
Monsieur Le Vergnier had a good or a bad accent.^’ Ruth 
did not pretend to know herself, but she supposed it most prob- 
able that it was good, because if it were not Mrs Carter would 
not have engaged him. Alice, in the midst of her irritations, 
could not help laughing. The answer was so like Ruth, simple, 
and to the point; and she turned to Florence with an air of 
triumph, exclaiming — 

‘ There, Florence, what can you say to that ? Ruth is as 
good as a judge any day.’ 

Words ! how little do we know the effect they will have ! 
Ruth said to herself, ‘ as good as a judge.’ As good as Mary 
Vernon that meant. And why should she not be ? There was 
nothing to prevent her — there is nothing to prevent any of us 
from being like saints. But Ruth was not thinking of Mary 
Vernon’s heart so much as of her position — the respect in which 
she was held ; that was what she coveted — to be first. Alice 
said she was as good as a judge, and Florence Trevelyan 
agreed : perhaps they would rather have her as a judge than 
Anna Grant. If she were not so little and so young, she might 
be chosen. It was the first thought of ambition, and Ruth 
cherished it. 

Monsieur Le Vergnier came ; the routine of lessons went 
on. There were the usual number of mistakes and negligences ; 
the usual marks in the exercise books, in Monsieur Le Verg- 
nier’s cramped French hand, and the reckoning up of the whole 
at the end against the names of those who were trying for the 
French prize. One day is so like another at school, and often 
in common life we scarcely seem to know them apart. Yet 
there is a difference. To-day is not as yesterday ; we are 
nearer heaven or farther from it. Which is it ? 

Madeline stayed for a few minutes in the dressing-room 
alone, when the others left it after preparing for dinner, and 
thought of what she had been doing. She had made Monsieur 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


193 


Le Vergnier angry by whispering — that was wrong ; but she 
had written her exercise well — that was right. She had felt 
vexed because Clara Manners was more perfect than herself in 
the vocabulary ; but she had been trying to help Janet out of 
a difficulty. The good and evil seemed nearly equal ; yet 
Madeline again said a short, earnest prayer, and was happy. 
It is not the belief that we never do wrong that gives us peace, 
but the hope that God is looking favourably upon us because 
we are trying to find out our faults and conquer them. 

Florence Trevelyan and Alice renewed their discussion of 
Monsieur Le Vergnier’s accent after dinner. Florence was 
often in the habit of continuing a subject till every one grew 
weary of it. She was not clever, and her judgment was bad, 
and accordingly, like a great many other persons, she tried to 
make up for her weakness by obstinacy. There was a little 
spite also mixed with her feelings about Monsieur Le Vergnier. 
He had a daughter, a pretty, elegant girl, about the same age 
as herself, who was sometimes asked to drink tea with them, 
and was a general favourite. Comparisons were sometimes 
made between Florence and Justine Le Vergnier, and fre- 
quently to the disadvantage of Florence. Even the French 
name was liked better than the English, and Florence, who did 
not believe that any other young lady in England boasted such 
a pretty name as Florence Trevelyan, was as much provoked 
at this as if she had been excelled in any real advantage. The 
feeling, however, was lessening. Justine was engaging and 
good-natured, willing to give the patterns of her French 
dresses, and had once made Florence a present of a smelling- 
bottle. It was said in the school that by and by Florence and 
Justine would be great friends ; and it certainly was amusing 
to watch the influence which Justine was gradually acquiring, 
although occasionally, as in the present instance, the old feel- 
ing would break out. 

On one point Florence was always strenuous in asserting her 
superiority, and that was rank ; and now finding that the ma- 
jority were against her, she turned to this point of attack, and 
asserted that it was not likely Monsieur Le Vergnier should 
speak well, because he was not a gentleman. Mary Vernon, 
who had taken no part in the discussion, was leaving the room 
when the observation was made. She stopped immediately, 
and begged Florence to be careful in what she stated. ‘ Mon- 
sieur I.e Vergnier was, she believed, quite a gentleman by birth, 

N 


194 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


and it was evident he was so in manner.’ Florence was not 
pleased by this ‘ put down,’ as she called it, and when Mary 
was gone she repeated her former remark, adding that her papa 
and mamma were very particular as to society ; therefore, of 
course, she must be as well able to decide upon Monsieur Le 
Vergnier’s manner as Mary Vernon. In her excitement, 
Florence spoke quicker than usual, and Alice, without exactly 
meaning to be ill-natured, exclaimed — • 

‘ Well done. Flurry ! — now. Hurry, what have you to say ? 
you always go together.’ 

Florence grew very angry, and drawing herself up, replied, 
^ that it was not any use to talk to such a child as Alice — she 
could not understand ; and besides, there was not the same 
reason for her to be particular as there was for them.’ 

Alice was perplexed to discover the meaning of this speech. 
When Florence wished to be dignified, she was often rather 
misty in her mode of expression. 

‘ I do not see the difference between you and me, Florence,’ 
she observed, more quietly than might have been expected. 

‘ Don’t you .? ’ and Florence walked away with a peculiar 
smile. 

‘ The bell ! Hush ! Mrs Carter will be coming,’ exclaimed 
Madeline, who, with Ruth, was preparing her Italian transla- 
tion, apart from the others. 

Alice went up to Ruth. 

‘ Ruth, is not Florence silly and tiresome ? ’ 

^ I did not hear what she said,’ replied Ruth. ^ You have 
done your translation, I believe ; just let me know what this 
word is.’ 

Alice did as she was desired, and went away. She felt that 
Ruth was chilling. 

‘ I will tell you what it all means,’ said Clara Manners, when 
Alice sat down by her, and complained. ‘ Florence thinks her- 
self a great person because — I don’t know why exactly — some 
nonsense which I never took the trouble to listen to — but she 
fancies that Lady Catharine Hyde adopted you because your 
mamma was poor. She very often says so.’ 

‘ Does she .? My mamma poor ! ’ exclaimed Alice. ‘ My 
mamma was Lady Catharine’s friend ; she loved her dearly.’ 

‘ But why 1 ’ asked Clara ; ‘ what made them such friends 1 ’ 

‘ Why, a great many reasons ; she loved her dearly,’ again 
repeated Alice. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


195 

* Hush ! Alice, hush ! ’ said Madeline, leaning back and 
touching Alice’s arm. 

Alice, however, was in no humour to take a hint. She went 
on speaking, not perceiving that Mrs Carter was in the room. 

‘ Who is talking ? A forfeit, if you please,’ said Mrs Carter. 

Alice opened her desk, took out a little bag, drew from it a 
ticket with her name upon it, and laid it before Mrs Carter. 

‘ It ’s all Flurry’s fault,’ she contrived to whisper to Clara, and 
Clara nodded an assent, which gave Alice a friendly feeling 
towards her. 

The forfeit was no light thing. Only one ticket for good 
conduct was given during the day, and all who possessed a 
certain number at the end of the half year received a prize. 
Alice had never yet succeeded in obtaining this ; but she had 
lately resolved to try very hard for it. It would be such a 
pleasure to carry back a good-conduct prize to Lady Catharine. 
A greater misfortune, however, than the loss of the ticket was the 
distraction of Alice’s mind. She had accustomed herself to 
believe that because Lady Catharine Hyde had adopted her she 
must be deemed by every one a person of importance ; and, in 
general, considerable respect was paid her. Now, she tried to 
remember what Lady Catharine had ever told her about her 
mamma ; but as she was called away to a music lesson in the 
middle of her cogitations, there was not much opportunity for 
such recollections. Alice did not know how to govern her 
thoughts or force her attention, and all the afternoon she was in 
a painful state trying to do one thing and think of another ; and 
so inattentive that Mrs Carter was seriously displeased, and 
instead of allowing her to amuse herself after tea, sent her to 
the outer school-room to sit alone, and prepare her lessons for 
the next day. 

These were soon finished ; but still Alice remained in solitude 
and thought. What did she really know of her mamma ? It 
was strange to find how little it was. Lady Catharine seldom 
mentioned Mrs Lennox. Sometimes, indeed, she would show 
Alice her picture, and say that her mother was as saint-like in 
mind as she was lovely in feature ; and occasionally she would 
relate anecdotes of her patience and goodness, but this was all ; 
and Alice, thinking that the apparent disinclination to continue 
the subject must arise from the same cause as Lady Catharine’s 
silence regarding her husband, feared to make her unhappy by 
asking questions, besides standing in great awe of her. How 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


196 

Alice herself first gained the idea of Lady Catharine’s extreme 
affection for her mamma she could not tell. It seemed to have 
grown up with her, to be as much a matter of course as that 
she should be fond of Ruth and Madeline ; but this was no 
answer to Clara’s question — ‘ Why it was ? ’ Alice never could 
endure delay or uncertainty. If a doubt entered her mind it 
must be solved instantly. She was determined to know all that 
was to be told her, and this could only be by writing to Lady 
Catharine. If it had been necessary to speak she might have 
been afraid, but a letter was easier. She was quick in writing, 
and Lady Catharine was always pleased to hear from her, and 
the result of the solitary evening was a request the next day 
that she might be allowed to write home. 

Ruth’s passing thought, that if she were older and better she 
might be chosen as judge, returned again. It came in the shape 
of a castle in the air ; a plan as to what she would do if she 
were judge ; how she would be particular that the little ones 
learned their lessons properly, and were ready for church in 
good time ; and were neatly dressed when visitors came to 
drink tea ; with other cases of the same kind. She found also 
a satisfaction in comparing herself with Anna Grant, and in 
imagining the praises which she herself would most probably 
receive for her attention. To obtain the good-conduct prize from 
Mrs Carter, and to be deemed worthy the office of judge by her 
schoolfellows, were now the objects of Ruth’s highest ambition. 
Madeline alone shared Ruth’s confidence, for Madeline was 
always inclined to sympathise ; and the respect which she 
entertained for Ruth made her feel that no wish or scheme of 
hers could be out of place. If Ruth had desired to be a prin- 
cess, Madeline would have been willing to believe that the idea 
was not an absurdity. 

‘ You must not say anything about it, though, Madeline, 
dear,’ said Ruth, as they remained talking together in the 
dressing-room, a few days after the notion first suggested itself 
to Ruth’s mind. ‘ They would all laugh, now. .* I am so little. 
But, I mean by and by, a long time off, I should not wonder ; 
should you ? ’ 

‘ After Anna Grant, perhaps,’ said Madeline ; ‘ if we stay 
here till then.’ 

< Anna Grant will not be here long,’ replied Ruth. ^ She is 
not so very much younger than Mary.’ 

‘ But she must stay some time, for you to grow taller.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 197 

* I have grown a good deal lately/ observed Ruth, stretching 
her neck. 

‘ Yes ; but then to be judge you ought to be so very tall.’ 

‘ I don’t know/ replied Ruth, with a disappointed air. ‘Anna 
will never be tall, Mrs Carter says.’ 

‘ Oh ! but, Ruth, just think of the difference between you,’ 
exclaimed Madeline. ‘ Anna looks grown up. But perhaps we 
shall go home again before she leaves school, and then you will 
be happy, and will not care about being judge.’ 

Without answering, Pmth went away, whilst Madeline sat 
down on a trunk, and indulged in a pleasant dream of home ; 
of the quiet, low-roofed Parsonage, the smooth lawn, the old 
elm-trees, the long green walk, and then, the sweet face cf her 
mamma, and the warm, fond kiss of her papa. Madeline quite 
forgot she was at school, and was only brought back to the 
knowledge of it by a tap on the shoulder from Alice, who asked 
her w'hat she was doing there all alone. 

‘ I was thinking about home, the holidays,’ said Madeline : 
‘ don’t you often think about them, Alice ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; but I like school.’ 

‘ So do I sometimes. I believe I do always when I am not 
remembering home.’ 

‘ I wish my home was the Parsonage,’ observed Alice. 

Madeline looked at her kindly, and said, ‘ Alice, dear, when 
we are grown up, and we all go back to Laneton, it will be 
nearly like living in the same house; only then you will be 
much grander than we are.’ 

‘ I don’t want to be grand, Maddy ; but I should like to have 
a mamma.’ 

‘ Papa says Lady Catharine loves you dearly,’ replied Madeline. 

‘ Does he ? I wonder whether she does.’ 

‘ O, Alice ! you must be sure of it. How often you have 
told me that she calls you her child.’ 

‘ Yes, she calls me so, but she is so strict, and the Manor is 
dull. I am sure I should be happier if I had a mamma.’ 

Madeline found it difficult to say anything comforting upon 
this subject. She had never forgotten Lady Catharine’s sternness 
upon the occasion of Alice’s entering the shut-up rooms, and 
it had often since astonished her that Alice could be even as 
unconstrained as she was in Lady Catharine’s presence. 

‘ Lady Catharine does not talk much about dear mamma,’ 
continued Alice. ‘ I wrote to her last Friday to ask about her.’ 


198 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


‘O, Alice! how could you venture?^ exclaimed Madeline, 
her eyes opening wide in surprise. 

‘ I don’t know/ replied Alice. ‘ Florence Trevelyan asked 
me questions, and I did not know what to answer, so I thought 
I would find out.’ 

‘ But will Lady Catharine be angry ?’ asked Madeline. 

‘ I don’t know ; I never know about her, Madeline. How I 
wish I had a mamma I ’ 

Alice’s eyes were full of tears, and Madeline, though she 
longed to say something consoling, could not in the least think 
what it should be. 

‘ I am sure 1 should be better if I had a mamma,’ continued Alice. 

‘ Some one to teach you, you mean ? ’ 

‘No, I don’t. Mrs Carter teaches me, and Lady Catharine 
teaches me ; but I should like to have some one to love me.’ 

‘ Ruth and I love you, Alice, dearly.’ 

‘ Ruth does not,’ replied Alice : ‘ she is much fonder of Mary 
Vernon and of Jessie O’Neile, than she is of me.’ 

‘Every one is fond of Jessie,’ replied Madeline; ‘because 
she talks so oddly.’ 

‘ It does not signify why it is, Madeline ; but you know very 
well, that Ruth likes to be put with the old girls ; and I think, 
one reason why she helps Jessie often is, because it makes her 
seem old. She would not do her history with me, yesterday ; 
though it would have saved me a great deal of trouble.’ 

‘ Mrs Carter thinks that Ruth is as useful as any of the old 
girls,’ observed Madeline ; ‘ I heard her say so the other day.’ 

‘ Well, you don’t understand ; it is no use talking,’ answered 
Alice ; ‘ you have a mamma, and I have not, and there is the 
difference.’ 

Madeline was puzzled to know what connection there could 
be between this last observation and the former one, and she 
was silent. The tea-bell rang. Alice joined her companions, 
and said little. She was dwelling upon her own solitariness ; 
unhappy, she scarcely knew why — but in reality longing to be 
quite certain that she was an object of affection to some one. 

‘The postman ! I saw him,’ exclaimed little Jessie, the next 
day, bursting into the room just as the desks were being opened, 
and the books brought out in preparation for the morning’s 
work. ‘ Sure, and he ’ll be here in a minute.’ 

‘ You peeped then, Jessie,’ said Janet Harding; ‘peeping is 
wrong.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


199 

‘ Ah, well ! and if I did, I have not got a forfeit. Ruth, dear, 
I hope you ’ll have a letter.’ 

Ruth shook her head, doubtfully, and beckoning to Jessie, 
advised her to be steady, and to begin looking over a lesson. 

‘ He is a long time coming,’ observed Florence. ‘ Hark ! 
wasn’t that the knock ? ’ 

Alice was at her desk, searching in it for a paper she had 
lost. Her hand was unsteady and she could not well hold the 
lid open. 

‘Now ! let us wager who will have letters,’ cried Clara Man- 
ners. ‘ 1 will bet you a halfpenny, Florence, that you will not.’ 

‘ I don’t expect one. Harriet and I heard yesterday.’ 

‘Well then, Ruth; — no, Ruth won’t bet; — Alice, Alice 
Lennox, 1 will bet you a halfpenny, that there will be no letter 
for you this morning.’ 

Alice shut her desk, and looked up quickly : ‘ I bet you a 
halfpenny, there will be.’ 

‘ No betting,’ said Anna Grant, who just then came in and 
overheard the exclamation ; ‘ or I shall report to Mrs Carter.’ 

Alice was provoked at the tone, and Clara Manners replied 
sharply — 

‘ There is no need of telling Mrs Carter. Governess Anna 
can punish without her.’ 

‘ I think Alice forgot the rule, Anna,’ observed Ruth ; ‘ and 
she was not with us the other day when Mrs Carter spoke about 
laying wagers.’ 

‘ Yes, I did forget,’ replied Alice, evidently pleased at Ruth’s 
interference. She recovered herself instantly ; and rising, v/ent 
to look into the passage, in the hope of seeing the postman. 

A servant entered the room. Some of the young ladies were 
wanted in Mrs Carter’s study. Miss Grant, Miss Harding, and 
Miss Lennox. Anna and Janet were gone in a moment. Alice 
walked more slowly behind. 

‘ Here are letters for you, my dears,’ said Mrs Carter, in her 
mild, kind voice ; ‘ I hope they will bring you good accounts 
from home.’ 

Alice did not break the seal ; she wished to read her letter 
alone, but there was no place, the dressing-room excepted, and 
there she was open to interruption. She went back to the 
school-room. Her letter was a packet ; it could not be skimmed 
over quickly, and Signor Berretoni, the Italian master, was ex- 
pected every minute. 


200 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


* Will you please show your exercise first/ she said, in an 
under-tone, going up to Ruth, who was still busy with Jessie 
O’Neile. 

‘ Me ! What for ? It is not my turn/ 

‘ But I can read my letter if you will/ 

‘ Well, I will see ; but no, I cannot ; Jessie is not half per- 
fect yet/ 

Ruth spoke decisively, and Alice sat down disappointed. She 
would not beg a second time. 

‘ I shall have finished my exercise in one minute,’ said 
Madeline, twisting herself round on her stool to speak to Alice. 

^ Thank you,’ was Alice’s short reply ; and Madeline, with- 
out thinking whether her manner was gracious, wrote on quickly 
' — with a certain conviction in her own mind that she was making 
blunders, and regretting much that she had wasted her time the 
day before, and in consequence was as usual behindhand with 
her lessons. 

‘ My very dear Alice.’ What a strange beginning that was 
for Lady Catharine. Alice could scarcely imagine she read 
the words rightly. She went on rapidly, for Lady Catharine’s 
handwriting was always legible. ‘ I can scarcely describe the 
pleasure your letter gave me. For the last three years, I may 
with truth say, it has been my great desire that you should 
value your dearest mother’s memory. You were on earth her 
one great interest and joy, and surely we may believe that if 
the spirits of the blest are allowed to know that which passes 
upon earth, she is still watching over you with the tenderest 
affection. I cannot often talk to you about her, my dear Alice ; 
I loved her too well for words ; but I can write without diffi- 
culty ; and I am thankful that you have at last given me the op- 
portunity. You ask me, to inform you how it was that your dear 
mother and I first became acquainted. You know that we were 
at school together ; that was the beginning of our friendship ; 
we knew nothing of each other till then. I had been at school 
several years ; indeed, I was almost the eldest when your 
mamma came. She was of a sickly constitution, even then ; 
very little of her age, and shy, and backward in some things 
which, by young girls, are considered of importance. From 
these causes we were not much together ; and there were other 
reasons. I was then of a very haughty disposition — thinking 
much of my rank, and encouraged in this feeling by my com- 
panions. I had no real friend, for I was not inclined to con- 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


201 


Bider any of my school-fellows my equal. My governess was 
a *good person, but she was not like Mrs Carter ; she did not 
know all our characters, and she fostered my faults, uncon- 
sciously, by always putting me first. By this means I ac- 
quired many bad habits without being corrected ; amongst 
others, my manner in church was very irreverent. I was 
allowed to sit in a back seat with other of the elder girls ; 
and not considering the awful Presence in which we were, 
we allowed ourselves to lounge, and whisper, and even to sit 
during the prayers. It so happened that in consequence of 
the illness of one of my companions, there was one day a vacant 
seat in what was always called my pew. Your dear mamma 
was chosen to fill it. She sat next to me, and I supposed 
she would do as I did. In fact, I had such an idea of my own 
consequence that I imagined it quite right my example should 
be followed. To my surprise I found that, at the risk of mak- 
ing herself singular, and in consequence disliked, your mamma 
was resolved to kneel during the prayers, and kept her eyes 
steadily fixed upon her book. I was extremely annoyed, and 
in spite contrived to place myself so that she could not kneel 
without crowding me. This I thought would be a sufficient 
check, for I was always treated with much outward politeness. 
But your mamma, my dear Alice, seemed as bent upon having 
her way as I was upon having mine. She made a sign to the 
others to move lower down so as to give me room, which they 
could easily do, and then she knelt as before. Upon our re- 
turn home there was a general outcry against her. Almost all 
declared that the seat being full it was impossible to kneel ; and 
that no fault had been found with us for not doing so ; and 
one of the party remarked that common courtesy might have 
induced your mamma to behave more civilly to her superior in 
rank. To this she answered quietly, and with some hesitation, 
that she was willing to show me all proper respect, but that she 
had been taught to consider a church as the house of God, 
and that she was bound to honour Him before me. The ob- 
sen'ation struck me very much, but it made me angry ; and 
not knowing what reply to give, I told her that when she grew 
up she would understand her duty better. One or two of our 
companions smiled at this speech, which made me still more 
indignant, for I saw that I had been foolish as well as wrong, 
and I went away. The next day we were reading in the Bible 
the account of the golden image which Nebuchadnezzar set up 


202 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


in the plain of Dura. We were examined upon it afterwards, 
and amongst other questions I was asked how Christians could 
commit the same sort of sin as Nebuchadnezzar. I was not 
quite prepared with an answer, and the question went round 
till it came to your mamma, who said, “ by paying more honour 
to our fellow-creatures than to God.” You may imagine how 
provoked I was to hear this, knowing what must be in her 
mind ; but it was worse for me when I was called upon for a 
still further explanation, for I became confused in consequence. 
Our governess was shocked at what she imagined my ignor- 
ance, and from her way of talking I soon perceived that she 
had some particular reason for bringing the subject forward. 
She told us that we probably looked upon ourselves as innocent 
of any sin at all approaching to that of Nebuchadnezzar, be- 
cause we never worshipped idols, but that God, who knew our 
hearts and our secret actions, would Judge very differently ; 
and then she alluded to our irreverent conduct in church, which 
had been remarked by one of the teachers, and which, she said, 
was like idolatry — an insult to the majesty of God, and would 
most surely bring down punishment upon our heads, if per- 
sisted in. I felt conscience-stricken, and thoroughly ashamed 
at deserving this reproof myself ; but I expected to hear your 
dear mamma Justify herself, perhaps at my expense. She was, 
however, naturally timid, besides fearing to do harm to us by 
excusing herself ; and when the task which was set as a pun- 
ishment was shown to us, she took her book to learn it with the 
others. As she was returning to her seat, I heard our gover- 
ness say, “ 1 expected better things from Alice Mortimer ; she 
has had such good instruction.” Injustice always touched me 
greatly. This speech was unjust, though not wilfully so ; and 
I could not bear it. Before all the school I stepped forward 
and declared her innocence, whilst I acknowledged my own 
fault in striving to turn her from her duty. 

‘ From that day, Alice, your dear mamma and I were friends, 
— friends in the best sense of the word — anxious to assist each 
other in our duties. She professed herself very grateful to me, 
and I had great reason to be grateful to her ; for she was the 
first person who made me see that my rank was a cause, not 
for pride, but for greater care in all my actions. 

‘ We were at school together for a year and a half, and every 
day made us more and more fond of each other. As the elder, 
my education was the first finished ; but I was scarcely glad to 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


203 


return home, from grief at the thought of leaving my cherished 
companion. Before parting, we made a mutual agreement, 
that wherever we might be, and under whatever circumstances, 
we should never cease, if possible, to write to each other ; and 
that if trial should befall us, we would instantly apply to each 
other for comfort and help. Many would think this a rash en- 
gagement ; perhaps it was so. Yet it has often appeared to 
me since that the blessing of God was upon it. If He is a 
jealous God, not permitting honour to be shown to any creature 
before Him, so is He also a most gracious God, showing mercy 
unto thousands of them that love Him — showing mercy unto 
you, my own Alice, for the sake of your most dear mother. 

‘ After leaving school, we were separated for several years. 
Our homes were distant, and circumstances prevented our 
meeting. I was the first married ; and on that occasion 
the friend whom I so truly loved was with me. She acted 
as my bridesmaid. About three years afterwards, she married 
herself, and went abroad. Your father, my dear Alice, as I 
have often told you, I never saw ; but I know that he was 
in every way worthy of the treasure which he possessed 
in his wife, and during the short period of their married life, 
rendered her as happy as on earth we are ever permitted 
long to be. During the time of their residence in Ceylon, your 
mother and I still kept up a constant correspondence. No 
change had any influence over our affection, for it was an affec- 
tion not of this world. It pleased God to visit us differently, 
one with joy, the other with sorrow, nearly at the same time. 
Soon after she had cause to rejoice in your birth, I was tried by 
the greatest affliction of my life. But in the midst of her own 
happiness, your dear mamma could sympathise with my grief, 
and more than ever I then felt the blessing of her friendship. All 
that happened afterwards you well know ; you have often heard 
of your long residence in Ceylon, and you are acquainted with 
all the particulars of your papa’s illness and death. After that 
sad event, I entreated your dear mamma to settle in Laneton, 
reminding her of her early promise ; but she could not then 
comply with my wishes. Her own father and a sister were 
living, and she felt it her duty to go to them. Their death, 
liowever, soon followed, and your mamma fell into ill health. 
Then I prevailed upon her to come to me ; and then it was 
that, by daily intercourse, by witnessing continually her meek- 
ness, patience, and fervent piety, I first knew all her worth. 


204 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


God grant that the example may not have been sent me in vain. 
It was on her death-bed that she commended you to my care, 
Alice, my own child ; and I have vowed in the sight of Heaven 
that, so far as in me lies, that solemn charge shall faithfully be 
kept. 

‘ Now, may God bless you, and keep you, and make you His 
true servant, faithful unto the end, even like her who has entered 
into rest. So will you, indeed, be all that my heart can wish. — ■ 
Your very affectionate and most constant friend. 


‘ Catharine Hyde.* 


‘Alice,* said Florence Trevelyan, ‘we have all shown our 
exercises, except you.’ 

Alice looked up, as if waking from a dream. Her eyes were 
full of tears. Signor Berretoni tapped his finger impatiently on 
the table. Madeline left her seat, took up Alice’s exercise book, 
and placed it before him. 

‘ Ask if anything is the matter at the Manor,’ said Ruth, 
whispering to her sister in French across the desk. Alice smiled 
through her tears as she answered, ‘ No.’ Ruth went on with 
her occupations contentedly, but Madeline took the opportunity 
of finding out a difficult passage in her Italian translation, and 
occupying Signor Berretoni’s attention with it until Alice was 
quite recovered, and able to go to him. 


CHAPTER XXL 


LICE LENNOX was what is called a person of impulse. 



She had quick feelings, very earnest wishes, at times 
great energy ; but she had little firmness of purpose. Alice’s 
resolutions were frequently broken almost as soon as made. 
'But she did not think it would be so now. Often as she had 
been disappointed with herself, she still lived in the hope of 
being one day really good — really like what she imagined Ruth 


to be. 


The day on which she received Lady Catharine’s letter was 
a day of good intentions. How indeed could it be otherwise ? 
How could Alice read of her mother’s gentle firmness, her sin- 
cerity, and piety, without a wish to resemble her ? Even in the 
midst of the busy school -room, Alice’s thoughts travelled back 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


205 


to by-gone years — the white house and its little garden, the 
neat sitting-room, the bed-room with the curtains partly drawn, 
and Benson sitting by the bed-side, the table with jelly upon it, 
and lozenges, and oranges ; and then the fair, wan cheek which 
rested upon the pillow, the thin hands, the soft, sweet voice, that 
distant shadowy image which was all she could imagine of her 
mother, except from a picture at the Manor, in Lady Catharine’s 
boudoir, so full of life. and health, that it was almost impossible 
to imagine it a representation of the same person. Alice thought 
of her mother as of something angelic. To be like her seemed 
impossible, but to follow her at a distance, to try to please her 
as if she was still living, was something more within her reach, 
and in pleasing her she would give pleasure to Lady Catharine. 

If Alice had lived with those only who were religious, this 
might have been the turning-point of her life ; the wishes now 
formed might have been acted upon for a continuance. But 
such is not the position which God provides for us. He sets 
before us good and evil, life and death. He makes us His 
children. He gives us good instructions, and promises to aid 
us with His Holy Spirit, when we pray to Him, and then He 
places us, as it were, in a battle with temptations before and 
behind and around us, and bids us fight and conquer. 

Alice’s great temptation lay in her companions ; this she 
knew, and the first result of Lady Catharine’s letter was to in- 
duce her to resolve firmly against being led away by evil 
example. If she could not be like Ruth, who was held up as 
a pattern to the school, still she thought it might be possible to 
be like Madeline, who kept on her quiet course, striving to 
improve, endeavouring to overcome her natural faults of care- 
lessness, procrastination, and rather a hasty temper, and win- 
ning general esteem and affection by her straightforward honesty 
and simple good-nature. 

Alice’s resolutions were this time more lasting than usual. 
She kept a strict watch over herself for some time after re- 
ceiving Lady Catharine’s letter, and in this she was aided by 
the wish not only of doing rightly but also of gaining a good- 
conduct prize. Midsummer was approaching, and although 
she had not yet gained by any means the proper number of 
tickets, it was still possible to make up for past neglect. Alice 
began to be very diligent. She was up early in the morning, 
never allowed herself to play until her lessons were prepared, 
and gave little heed to Clara’s ridicule. To have seen Alice at 


2o6 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


that time one might have imagined that she was become a differ- 
ent person, steadily good, instead of being so only at intervals. 

One morning, about three weeks after this improvement 
began, just as the lessons were over, Anna Grant burst into 
the room in her usual impetuous manner : ‘Now, girls ! hush 
but the noise continued. Ruth, who was taking advantage of 
a spare quarter of an hour to practise, left off playing, and said 
with an arch, quiet smile — 

‘ You might as well talk to a hive of bees disturbed.^ 

‘ If they are bees, I will be a wasp,’ replied Anna, and she 
spoke again, ‘Hush! can’t you? — Miss Barnard’ — the name 
was a spell, and commanded instant attention. 

‘ Miss Barnard sends word that we are to dine at four. 
Justine is coming.’ There was a general exclamation of plea- 
sure. ‘ All the lessons are to be over before dinner, and we 
are to walk afterwards.’ 

‘ That is what I call fun,’ exclaimed Clara Manners ; ‘ now 
for luncheon. Clear the long table, will you, Florence ? it is 
your week.’ 

But Florence moved slowly. ‘ She did not see the good of 
Justine’s coming so often. Justin was Mrs Carter’s friend — not 
theirs.’ 

‘ I don’t know about the good,’ replied Clara : ‘ that is in 
Ruth’s line ; but Justine amuses one by the hour. Besides, I 
want to see her particularly.’ 

‘ Particularly ! why ? you have nothing to do with her more 
than any one else.’ 

Clara replied by taking up a book. 

‘ Alice, here are your Italian exercises. Why don’t you give 
her a careless mark. Flurry ? ’ 

‘ My name is not Flurry,’ said Florence, in an offended tone. 

‘ Well, Florence I most serene high-mightiness, Florence ! 
why don’t you do your duty better ? And a verb book, too ! 
Alice, what have you been thinking of?’ 

Alice came forward, and took the book. Her manner was so 
quiet that Clara was struck by it. She inquired what was the 
matter, laughed at her for being mopy, and then went back to 
provide herself with luncheon ; Dawson having just brought in 
two large plates full of bread and butter, and bread and cheese, 
and Jessie O’Neile having a pot of preserves before her, a 
present from home, which she was upon the point of distribut- 
ing to any one who asked. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


207 

* Ma foi ! this jam is very good/ exclaimed Clara, as Jessie 
supplied her with her share. 

‘ “ Ma foi ” is very vulgar,’ observed Anna Grant. ^ You 
should not say it, Clara.’ 

‘Vulgar ! Justine says it every day.’ 

‘ I don’t know why that is a reason for its not being vulgar,’ 
observed Anna ; ‘ Justine has many odd ways.’ 

‘ And she says “ O Ciel ! ” very often,’ remarked Florence 
Trevelyan ; ‘ why don’t you say that too, Clara ’ 

‘ I would if I remembered it, but “ ma foi ” comes most 
naturally.’ 

‘ “ Ma foi ” is swearing,’ said Janet Harding ; ‘ my mamma 
never lets me say it, and I can tell a great many texts about 
it.’ 

‘ That is good ! ’ exclaimed Clara ; ‘ Listen, all of you, listen. 
Janet Harding knows a great many texts about “ ma foi.” ’ 

Janet reddened and stammered, and declared that Clara was 
laughing at her. 

‘ I do not mean to laugh ; I am very grave ; I want to 
hear the texts,’ said Clara. 

Janet began a text against swearing, but she was stopped in 
the middle by Anna Grant, who stated that she was not in the 
humour to hear texts, and begged that 'Js-i^^t would leave off. 
A general laugh followed at J anet’s expense ; and the little girl 
was obliged to return to her desk quite discomfited. Madeline 
saw her downcast look, and went up to her. 

‘ It is no good, Janet,’ she said. ‘ You will never make them 
listen to texts ; and besides, you say such odd things. Justine 
is a lady, and ladies never swear.’ 

‘ Yes, they do,’ replied Janet, ‘and Justine says worse things 
than “ O Ciel !” she says “ Mon Dieu !” ’ 

‘ But it is French,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Yes ; ’ and Janet thought for an instant ; ‘ but being French 
does not make any difference.’ 

‘ A great many of the others say “O Ciel,”’ continued Made- 
line ; ‘ Alice does.’ 

Alice looked up from the book she was reading. 

‘ I never thought there was any harm in saying that in 
French.’ 

‘It is haiTn, though,’ replied Janet, nodding her head 
with an air of authority ; ‘ and if you like, I will tell you all 
about it.’ 


2o8 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


‘ Thank you, said Alice, coolly ; ‘ but I don’t wish to know;’ 
and she again began reading. 

Just then Miss Barnard came into the school ior the afternoon 
lessons. 

As Madeline moved away, Alice heard Janet whisper that 
‘ she was sure Lady Catharine could not have been strict with 
her, because she was not at all particular in her notions.’ 

This was an unfortunate speech for Alice to hear. She never 
liked Janet Harding. Janet’s way of interfering, and giving 
opinions without being asked, was very disagreeable to her ; 
and the reproof she had now received rankled in her mind. 
She would not allow that it was wrong to say ‘ O Ciel ! ’ and as 
for its being swearing, the very notion of such a thing seemed 
ridiculous. 

Justine’s example, also, went a great way with Alice. Justine 
was a very pleasing-mannered girl, attracting attention not 
merely from her French dress and accent, but from her ani- 
mation and good humour. She was not an old acquaintance. 
Monsieur Le Vergnier had only lately begun to teach in the 
school. He was a gentleman by birth, but very poor, and his 
daughter was to be educated for a governess. Both had been 
warmly recommended to Mrs Carter by persons whose opinion 
she valued. Justine, it was said, had received a strict, careful 
education ; and what she now most required was a little ac- 
quaintance with English habits. English companions of her 
own age would be likely to give her this, and it would be an 
advantage to her for her whole life ; and after considerable 
hesitation, Justine was invited to the house. It was remarked, 
that on the occasion of her visits, Mrs Carter sat more in the 
school-room herself, or kept Justine and the elder girls with her 
in the parlour ; but beyond this no change was noticed, and 
only a few saw’ cause to imagine that any particular v^atch was 
maintained over the agreeable French stranger. 

Justine came a little before the dinner-time, as usual, very 
nicely dressed, very lively, and affectionate and engaging in 
manner. Florence Trevelyan was seen at her side, admiring 
her collar, and asking for the pattern ; and Alice felt quite 
angry with Janet Harding for having suggested, that she had 
any bad habits. Alice was standing by herself whilst Justine 
was describing to Florence how the collar should be w^orked, 
when Janet came up to her, and said, in a quick under-tone, 
‘ Now listen, Alice, listen i she does swear.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


209 


A gentle ^ Ah, mon Dieu !’ escaped from Justine at this 
instant. Alice walked away without answering. She went 
into the dressing-room to prepare for dinner. Mary Vernon 
and Ruth were there : they were talking earnestly. Alice’s 
countenance always showed when anything annoyed her, and 
Ruth, stopping in the middle of a sentence, asked, ‘ What was 
the matter ? ’ 

‘ Nothing,’ answered Alice ; ‘ only Janet makes me angry ?’ 

‘What about.?’ inquired Ruth. 

‘ I cannot exactly tell ; but it is her way ; she sets herself 
up so; and she has no business to speak of Justine as she 
does. If Janet were to live a thousand years, she would never 
be half as good and nice as Justine ; now would she.?’ 

Ruth hesitated what to reply, and Alice saw her glance at 
Mary Vernon. 

‘ You don’t mean that you do not like Justine !’ continued 
Alice, in surprise. 

‘ No,’ replied Mary ; ‘ like her ! every one must, for being 
agreeable ; but, Alice, Ruth and I are not quite sure about 
other things, — more important things. I think she has differ- 
ent notions from ours.’ 

‘ Of course she has, because she has been educated in 
France.’ 

‘ But Mary spoke to her the other day about saying those 
solemn words, as she does,’ observed Ruth ; ‘ and she took it 
so oddly.’ 

‘ I daresay she was angry,’ replied Alice ; ‘ I am sure I 
should have been.’ 

‘ No, she was not at all angry, but she laughed and made a 
joke of it,’ said Mary; ‘and when we touched upon other 
serious things, going to church and so on, she did not seem 
to understand or care much about it. You know, Alice, that 
cannot be right.’ 

‘She is French,’ said Alice, ‘ and she speaks French.’ 

‘ But that does not alter the case. Things are wrong just 
the same, whether they are French or English.’ 

‘ I could say what Justine does much more easily in French 
than in English,’ replied Alice. 

‘ Yet you would be wrofig, Alice, still,’ observed Mary, in a 
gentle tone. 

‘ And it is making such a fuss about a trifle,’ continued Alice : 

‘ after all, what Justine generally says is, “ O heaven ! ” why is 

o 


210 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


there more harm in that than in ‘‘ goodness ” or gracious/ 
and such words ?’ 

‘ Are you sure that any of those expressions are right ? ' 
asked Mary. 

‘ Oh ! if you are as strict as that, Mary, you should never 
open your lips : and at any rate, I would rather be a little 
careless like Justine, than quote texts sharply like Janet 
Harding.’ 

‘ Why should you do either, dear Alice ? Why should you 
not be like Ruth } ’ 

Ruth’s face crimsoned. Mary saw it, and said, as she kissed 
her and smiled, ‘ I did not mean to make you blush, Ruth.’ 
Ruth blushed still more deeply, and Mary Vernon thought how 
nice it was to find one so good, so shy, and humble. Alice 
was never annoyed at being considered inferior to Ruth, and 
now she candidly allowed that Ruth was far beyond herself. 

‘ In fact,’ she said, ‘ it was impossible to think of being like 
her ; she wished it very much, she often thought about it, but 
whenever she tried she went back and became just as bad as 
before.’ 

‘ Some things you can imitate easily,’ said Mary. ‘ I do not 
think either Ruth or Madeline ever use those expressions.’ 

‘ Mamma always taught us not to do it,’ said Ruth. ‘ She 
used to tell us that many of them were at first really swearing ; 
that “ goodness ” meant the goodness of God, and “ gracious ” 
the same ; and that it was better not to say anything of the 
kind.’ 

^ We don’t mean to swear,’ observed Alice. 

‘ But is it not safer,’ asked Mary, ‘ to'avoid the expressions 
altogether? Do you think that if Justine had been carefully 
taught not to say “ O Ciel !” she would ever had used the 
more solemn words, “ Mon Dieu !” as irreverently as she 
does ?’ 

^ Certainly that must be wrong,’ said Alice, with an air of 
thought. ^ I do wish Justine would leave it off. 

‘ Then you will not be very angry with Janet for blaming her, 
will you?’ said Mary, playfully. 

I am not angry with Janet ; I do not care about her ; but I 
wish she would not quote texts always.’ 

Mary’s reply was stopped by the dinner bell. 

That afternoon Justine and Clara set off for their walk 
together. Clara said she had engaged Justine the last time she 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


21 1 


drank tea with them. Alice watched Justine to see if she liked 
the arrangement. It appeared she did, for she smiled sweetly, 
and was apparently amused at all Clara’s odd sayings. But 
then Justine had the same agreeable manner for every one. 
They were just setting off, when Clara came to Alice and asked 
if she would join them in the park, when they were allowed to 
change their companions. Justine wished it particularly. 
Mary Vernon was close to Alice at the moment, and, interrupt- 
ing more quickly than was her wont, she said — 

‘ O Alice ! I hoped you would have walked with Ruth and 
me; we were intending to ask you.’ Then, in a still more 
beseeching tone, added, ‘ I so wish you would.’ 

‘ But we cannot spare her ; we want her very much,’ exclaimed 
Clara. ‘ Indeed, Alice, we must have you.’ 

^ Mrs Carter is ready — waiting,’ cried Jessie O’Neile. 

There was no time to settle about the walking. They 
arranged themselves according to order, and set off. Alice and 
Janet Harding were forced to be together. Alice had never 
felt a greater aversion to Janet; she could not forget the 
morning’s observation. Janet, however, was unconscious of 
any change, still less that she had given offence ; and, speaking 
her thoughts aloud, she said, after a long silence — slowly, and 
as if the observation was the result of deep thought — 

‘ School is not at all like home.’ 

‘ Who ever thought it was ? ’ exclaimed Alice. 

^No; it is not at all like home,’ pursued Janet, in the same 
dreamy voice. ‘ I think my mamma would not have sent me 
to school if she had ever been there herself.’ 

‘Your mamma is ill,’ observed Alice, shortly; ‘that is the 
reason you are sent to school, is it not.^’ 

‘ Mamma said I should learn a great deal more at school 
than at home,’ replied Janet ; ‘ but I don’t think I do learn at 
all more ; and I am sure she would not like all the things we 
do here, and she would think Justine wicked.’ 

‘ You had better tell Justine so,’ replied Alice. 

‘ She would not care for what I said,’ continued Janet : ‘but 
mamma would think a great many of them wicked. She would 
like Madeline, because she is kind, and perhaps she would think 
Mary Vernon good, but she would not like anyone else.’ 

‘ Then it is better for her not to come here,’ said Alice. 

‘But they are wicked, Alice; because every one is wicked 
who is not very good.’ 


212 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


‘And what do you call yourself, then, Janet V said Alice. 

‘ Oh, I am not good yet, but I shall be by and by.’ 

‘ I hope you will,’ replied Alice ; and falling back int® 
silence, she continued without speaking till they reached the 
park. 

Alice’s thoughts were not likely to be of much service to her. 
They were very wandering, but principally she dwelt upon the 
contrast between Janet’s awkwardness and abruptness, and 
Justine’s agreeable, winning manner. Alice was much struck 
by manner at all times, and, feeling provoked with Janet, she 
was inclined to believe that she was unjust in her opinion of 
Justine. She even began to think that Mary Vernon must be 
either unjust or mistaken. They entered the park, and there 
was a general change of companions. Alice saw Mary and 
Ruth together. They appeared lingering for some one ; she 
thought it must be for her. But Alice was not thoroughly in 
the humour to walk with them ; she was too cross. Justine 
and Clara came behind her, and Justine said, in a sweet 
voice — 

‘ Now, Alice, will you join us ?’ 

‘ Of course she will. Why do you ask her?’ said Clara. 

Alice doubted what to answer. It was entirely against her 
resolution to walk with Clara. Justine repeated the request. 
Alice caught Janet Harding’s eye, and knew what her thoughts 
must be. In a fit of contradiction she turned back, put her 
arm within Justine’s, and left Janet to her own opinions. 

Alice had seldom enjoyed a more agreeable walk. Justine 
was more than commonly amusing, and particularly attentive 
to Alice,’ whom she professed to like extremely. Clara was 
softened by Justine’s gentleness, and Alice returned home more 
than ever inclined to believe Justine perfect. Certainly she 
did occasionally use startling expressions, but they did not 
sound as bad in French as in English; and, besides, Alice 
was less inclined to criticise them. It is astonishing how soon 
we become like those we are with. Alice’s good principles 
and resolutions had gone back many degrees when the walk 
was over. 

With the walk her pleasure for the day ended. She was 
behindhand with her lessons, and, when tea was over, she was 
obliged to go into the school-room to finish them. This was 
very tiresome, and Alice sat brooding over her work, and not 
putting her whole mind to it, till just as she had finished she 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


213 


heard Monsieur Le Vergnier’s knock at the door. Justine 
would not, she supposed, go immediately ; at any rate, it would 
be pleasant to be with her, though only for a few minutes ; and 
gathering up her books, Alice went into the closet to put them 
away. As she opened the door, some slates and copy-books, 
which had been carelessly piled up by one of the children, fell 
down, and in stooping to pick them up, Alice extinguished her 
candle. She was still trying to manage in the dark, when 
Clara and Justine came into the room with a light. They were 
talking, and did not notice that any one was behind the door. 
Alice heard Justine say — 

‘ But why won’t you subscribe at once ?’ 

• ‘ Because we can’t be quite sure of her yet,’ replied Clara ; 

^ she is so odd ; sometimes she takes it into her head to be as 
good as Ruth, but she likes you, Justine, I am sure ; and if I 
tell her the books are what you read, she will not think there is 
any harm in reading them also.’ 

‘ And what shall I do about this one which you want to see 
now ?’ 

‘ Oh, bring it, bring it. We will manage it somehow. We 
can get into the dressing-room sometimes, on Sunday after- 
noon especially. Hark i there is Monsieur inquiring for you ; 
we must be quick.’ 

Justine collected the few things which she had left in the 
school-room and departed. Alice remained behind perplexed 
and uncomfortable. She did not know what the conversation 
meant. She had not wished to listen to anything not intended 
for her ears, but there was an impression left upon her mind 
that something was to be done secret and wrong. And who 
could the ‘ she ’ be ? Could it be herself.? It was very prob- 
able. But then Justine never would do anything wrong. Mrs 
Carter, she believed, had a high opinion of her. Alice went 
into the dining-room. Clara and Justine were standing at the 
door. 

‘ Where have you been .?’ asked Justine, in a tone of kind 
reproach. 

‘ In the schc ol-room,’ answered Alice, ‘ finishing my lessons.’ 

* In the school-room ! — you were not there just now,’ ex- 
claimed Clara, hastily. 

‘ Yes I was — behind the door, putting up my books.’ 

‘ Then you heard — she must have heard,’ said Qlara, turning 
to Justine. 


214 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


‘ I heard what you said, but I did not understand it/ 

‘ Oh, no, to be sure she did not ; it was all nonsense,^ ex- 
claimed Justine ; ‘ but I must go, papa will be angry/ 

‘ Stop one minute, Justine,’ said Clara. ‘ Alice, you will 
promise Justine not to tell.?’ 

* There is nothing to tell that I know of,’ answered Alice. 

^ But you won’t ask, you won’t tease about it?’ continued Clara. 
‘ Justine, do make her promise, she will do anything for you.’ 

Justine heard her father speak impatiently. She began with 
a very irreverent exclamation. Alice shrank from the words for 
an instant : they gave her a painful feeling about Justine; but a 
warm French embrace, and a few words of endearment, won 
her heart, and she promised not to ask any questions until she 
was told that she might. 

‘You were right about Alice,’ said Mary Vernon to Ruth, as 
they were wishing each other good night. ^ I did not think she 
would have cared so much for being with Justine after what we 
said.’ 

‘ Alice likes any one who amuses her,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Yes, I am afraid she does. O Ruth ! if we could only 
make her like you ! ’ 

Ruth went to bed very happy. She thought over the events 
of the day. She could scarcely fix upon a single point in which 
she had really been negligent of her duty. And besides she 
had received high praise from Mary Vernon. Ruth knelt down 
to her prayers. Her attitude was very reverent : she seemed 
quite engrossed by the solemn duty she was performing. She 
rose and got into bed, without once breaking the rule for 
silence, which Anna Grant, who slept in her room, had some- 
times great difficulty in enforcing upon the others. Every one 
felt respect for Ruth — Ruth respected herself. 

Shall we look deeper into her heart ? Ruth’s thoughts before 
she went to sleep were those v/hich had occupied her during her 
prayers. When she said the holy words, ‘ Our Father which 
art in Heaven,’ she was thinking how glad she was that she 
was not like J ustine ; that she never used careless expressions ; 
never took the name of God in vain. When she asked God to 
forgive her her trespasses, she was imagining what her papa 
and mamma would say when they heard she was held up as an 
example. When she prayed that God’s name might be hal- 
lowed, she was fancying herself an object of admiration to the 
whole school. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


215 


Ruth went to bed satisfied. And is it possible then for any 
person so to fix his mind in prayer as never to allow his 
thoughts to wander ? Does this habit of repeating holy 
words without attention, really partake of the nature of that sin 
which, whoever commits it, God has said, ‘ He will not hold 
him guiltless.^ 

Ruth did not think so, but she was wrong. God’s holy name 
is taken in vain whenever it is mentioned without reverence ; 
whenever we kneel before Him without a sense of His presence. 
All — even the best, at times do this ; none are guiltless in the 
sight of God. But some try to fix their attention, some do not. 
God, ‘ who seeth the heart,’ forgives the imperfection of the 
one, but He will assuredly punish the other. 


CHAPTER XXII 



EEKS at school pass very rapidly ; every hour is occu- 


pied, and even those who are unhappy have scarcely 


time allowed them to think of their sorrow. There are 
sad moments, indeed ; mournful thoughts, perhaps in the twi- 
light, when the lessons are over, and conversation turns upon 
home and its pleasures ; and tears sometimes shed in" darkness 
when heads are laid upon the pillow waiting for sleep which 
does not at once come ; but this is not the general state of 
feeling. Except under peculiar circumstances there is as much 
happiness to be found in a school as in any of the ordinary 
situations of life. The Sundays came round so quickly at Mrs 
Carter’s, thatlhe children could scarcely imagine it possible 
that six days had passed between them. Yet the weeks which 
elapsed after Madeline’s misfortune with her text-book, seemed 
longer than usual, when she looked back upon them after the 
expiration of a month. She had thought more, tried more ; 
she had made an advance in principle ; and such times always 
make more impression upon us than common ones. The Sun- 
day afternoons, however, when they arrived, did appear precisely 
the same. The elder girls went to Mrs Carter, the younger 
sat down to write their texts, Clara Manners was as thoughtless, 
Janet Harding as complaining as before. She summoned 
Madeline to help her, and mourned over school troubles and 


2i6 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


difficult tasks, and Madeline sat by her, and pitied, and 
wrote ; but she had learned something by what had happened. 
She took care of her own duty first, and Janet was obliged to 
wait till Madeline’s texts were all properly finished, before she 
could obtain any assistance from her. This was a hint, and a 
very useful one, which Madeline had received from Mary Vernon. 
On the Sunday after Justine’s visit, Janet’s texts were brought to 
an end sooner than usual, and then her countenance cleared. 
She spoke of home, but it reminded her of pleasant things. 
She had received a basket of apples in the course of the week. 
It would be very nice to have some — ^who would like it ? 
Every one, of course ; and Janet went to ask permission to 
fetch them. 

‘ Janet will be worth something by and by,’ said Clara, ^ she 
is not quite so much of a shrivelled codling as she was. I can’t 
think what her papa and mamma can be like, to have made 
such a goose of her.’ 

‘ They have taken a great deal of pains with her,’ replied 
Madeline. 

‘ Then it is a pity they spent their time :to so little purpose,’ 
observed Clara. ‘ I never had a quarter of the trouble taken 
with me. They let me do just as I like at home.’ 

‘Just as you like, Clara .^’ said Jessie O’Neile, coming up to 
the desk. ‘ You don’t mean just as you like always.’ 

‘ Yes, ^‘ust as I like, always, little Miss Particular. Why do 
you catch up my words ? ’ 

‘ Because I thought no one ever did just what they like, 
always. Ruth says so.’ 

‘ Then Ruth knows nothing about it. Now, just listen all of 
you, and I will tell you how I spend my Sundays at home. 
First of all, I take half an hour’s grace in bed, which is parti- 
cularly comfortable. Then I go down-stairs, and have buttered 
toast and coffee for breakfast. We always have toast on Sun- 
day mornings. Then of course I have my best frock and bonnet 
to wear to church ; and when I am ready, I go over to the 
house opposite, where a great friend of mine lives, Jane Price, 
and she and I walk off to church together. We go rather early 
because we can walk slowly and watch the p'eople. Well ! then 
comes church, much prettier singing than we have here, and a 
sermon not half as long — and after church I go with Jane to 
have luncheon, and we have great fun.’ 

‘ But what fun? fun on a Sunday!’ asked Jessie. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


217 


‘Do you play?’ inquired Ellen Hastings. 

* Nonsense, children ! don’t interrupt. You cannot understand. 
I tell you we have fun.’ 

‘ Yes, but is it talking ?’ asked Alice. 

‘ What should it be but talking? We are not heathens. Jane 
tells me all she saw in church, all the odd figures. There is 
one man sits just opposite her pew — such a fright ! Great red 
whiskers and a strawberry nose.’ 

The re-entrance of Janet interrupted Clara’s details ,* the 
apples were produced and divided, and this for a time caused a 
change in the conversation, but Clara seemed bent upon return- 
ing to it. ‘ Well, after luncheon’ — she began. 

‘ Madeline,’ said Ruth, calling her sister away, ‘ I wish you 
would come here, I want to speak to you.’ Madeline went. 

‘ I cannot bear to hear Clara going on in that wild way,’ said 
Ruth, in an under-tone. 

‘ Oh ! why not? there is no harm, she is only telling usNvhat 
she does on Sunday.’ 

‘ But there is no good in hearing, and Jessie and Ellen had 
much better be reading, and it is so silly of Alice to encourage 
her.’ 

‘ Speak to her,’ said Madeline. 

‘ It will be of no use, she will not listen ; but I shall take the 
little ones away, and I wish you would not go there again.’ 

Alice’s laugh was heard at this instant. Clara was telling 
something particularly amusing. 

‘ You see how she’s enjoying it,’ said Ruth — ‘she likes Clara’s 
nonsense;’ 

Ruth went to the closet, and brought out some books, and 
placing a stool by the long table, she made Jessie and Ellen sit 
down by her. 

Madeline stood apart. She was not as sure as Ruth seemed 
to be, that Alice preferred Clara’s conversation to that of any 
one else. Yet, it was true that Clara was very amusing. As 
Madeline listened, she heard her describe things at which it was 
almost impossible to help laughing. Tricks — unkind tricks, 
played off by herself and her friend Jane Price ; still extremely 
absurd. Madeline had a strong impulse to hear more, and she 
drew near again. 

They could not read all the afternoon, and the texts were 
finished, and she had always been taught that Sunday was a day 
for enjoyment. A question suggested itself to Madeline’s mind. 


2I8 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


Would her papa quite approve of the conversation? No, she was 
sure he would not. She would not like him to hear it, though 
she did not know exactly why. Madeline turned away and 
began to read. 

* Why do you read, Maddy?' asked Alice, in a voice which 
betrayed some uncomfortable feeling. 

‘ Because I had rather.’ 

‘ But don’t read. Clara is telling such capital stories : come 
and listen.’ 

‘ Thank you, no, I had rather not ; and I think Alice, Mrs 
Carter would like it best.’ 

‘ Mrs Carter does not mind our talking when we have written 
our texts,’ said Alice. 

‘ No, not some talking, but’ 

‘ Never mind her ; we do very well without her,’ interrupted 
Clara. ‘ Let me see, where did I leave off ? ’ 

Alice went up to Madeline. ‘ What do you mean, Maddy ? 
What is the harm of our talking ? ’ 

‘ I don’t quite know, but it seems wrong, and Ruth does not 
like it, and I don’t think papa and mamma and Lady Catharine 
would.’ 

‘ Don’t you ? but it is only telling true things ; they are not 
stories.’ 

Well, perhaps it is not wrong, but I had rather read.’ 

Perhaps it was not wrong — that was sufficient for Alice, and 
she went back again. Even Clara, however, could not be 
amusing for ever. Alice at last grew tired of her idle words, 
and could not laugh as heartily as before. She looked at Ruth, 
and felt irritated. Jessie O’Neile was leaning her head upon 
Ruth’s shoulder listening to what she was saying, and little Ellen 
was holding her hand. They seemed quiet and good, and Ruth 
appeared to be taking a great deal of pains with them. Why 
should Alice have felt irritated ? Alice yawned and thought 
that Sundays were long, dull days. 

‘ That good Ruth ! ’ said Clara, following the direction of 
Alice’s glance, ‘ how she apes Mary Vernon ! ’ 

Alice could not bear to hear Clara speak of Ruth, and answered 
sharply, that ‘ she could not ape a better person.’ ‘ For my 
part, I would not ape any one,’ said Clara. ‘ I would rather be 
myself.’ 

‘ But what do you mean by Ruth’s aping Mary Vernon ?’ asked 
Alice. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


219 


‘ Oil, that she sets up to be a piece of perfection, and won’t 
have any fun, and that is what Mary does. She is as quiet as 
a church mouse on Sunday afternoons.’ 

Janet Harding, who had been sitting for some time silent with- 
out showing whether she was at all aware of what was going on, 
now joined in the conversation, and observed ‘ that she did not 
think Maiy Vernon, or any of them, knew how to behave on 
Sundays.’ 

* Then please set us the example,’ said Clara ; ‘ we shall be ' 
quite proud to learn. What are we to do ? Are we to say the 
Bible through from beginning to end ? ’ 

‘We could not do that, you know,’ replied Janet; ‘there 
would not be time.’ 

‘ Well then ! only half. Suppose you begin.’ 

Janet’s face flushed. Don’t laugh at her, Clara,’ said Alice. 

‘ I think she is better than we are.’ 

‘ Speak for yourself, Alice, if you please. Come, Janet, let us 
be edified by an account of your Sundays. I have given you an 
account of mine.’ 

Janet began, not without a tone of self-conceit. Her manner 
of keeping Sunday was quite the reverse of Clara’s. It was very 
strict ; with lessons to be learned from the Bible, and examina- 
tions, and scarcely anything in the shape of relaxation. Alice 
pitied her as she listened. Her thoughts went back to the 
Manor. Sunday was a day she liked ; Lady Catharine seemed 
less stern ; she seldom found fault with her, and tried to interest 
her by relating events which happened when she was a child ; 
and Alice’s time was fully occupied, for she taught a little class 
in the Sunday-school ; and at home books were provided for 
her, kept especially for the day. Some were story-books, but 
of a grave kind, besides which, there was the pleasure of making 
tea herself, and enjoying the Sunday cake, and sitting up rather 
later : altogether, Alice had a very agreeable impression of 
Sunday at the Manor. Still she could not help allowing that 
Janet’s notions were much better than Clara’s. The misfortune 
was that Janet spoiled the effect of any right principle by her 
manner. She had been accustomed to talk religiously before 
she had learned to act. She was not insincere, but she was incon- 
sistent ; apt to profess herself, and to call upon others to profess 
likewise, much more than they were able to practise. This Alice 
saw and disliked. She stopped Janet quickly, as she was proceed- 
ing to speak, in a lecturing tone, of Clara’s conduct, and said — ■ 

‘ Well, Janet, your way of spending Sunday may be very good 


220 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


■ — I daresay it is ; but there is no use in finding fault with every 
one else ; and I know I should hate it/ 

‘ That is because you are not good yet/ said Janet. ‘ I don’t 
like it always, but I shall by and by.’ 

‘ Good or not good, it is very stupid work staying here to talk 
about it,’ observed Clara. ‘ I wonder where Florence is.’ 

Florence just then came into the room with her sister. She 
went up to Clara and whispered to her, and Clara nodded 
her head, and said — 

‘ Very well ; directly ;’ and then Harriet and Florence went 
away again, and Clara almost immediately followed. 

Alice was uncomfortable when Clara was gone. She wanted 
to be amused. She wished she could be like Ruth and Made- 
line, who were never dull ; and, for want of something to do, 
she went to another desk, and joined in the same sort of conver- 
sation as before with others of her companions. 

They grew very noisy, and Mary Vernon, who was writing 
at the table, several times asked them to be quiet. Ruth 
watched Alice, and thought again that she liked idle con- 
versation, and that it would be no use to try and draw her into 
better habits. She seemed bent upon being careless and 
thoughtless. There was reading going on in the outer school- 
room. Miss Barnard was there ; the door was closed, but 
Ruth remarked to Mary Vernon that she was sure the laugh- 
ing would be heard ; and she was right. Miss Barnard sent a 
message to insist upon perfect quietness. There was a lull in 
consequence, but loud whispering went on notwithstanding. 
Madeline still sat apart, reading or trying to read. Once she 
turned round, and asked Alice whether it was not her turn to 
go to Miss Barnard next for Scripture reading ; because she 
had better find out the right chapter, and put a mark in. Alice 
only laughed, and said she should be quite in time, and Made- 
line returned to her book. 

‘ Miss Barnard is ready for some more,’ said Fanny Wilson, 
a short, buetling, good-natured girl, about thirteen years of age, 
coming in from the outer school-room. ‘ Whose turn is it } ’ 

Ruth, Madeline, Alice, and Janet Harding, with two others, 
prepared to go. 

‘ My Bible — I had my Bible ! ’ exclaimed Alice. ^ I wrote 
my texts from it. Who has taken it ? ’ 

No one knew : no one could think ; and no one took the 
trouble to search. 

‘ I am waiting/ said Miss Barnard, appearing at the door 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 221 

* Let me look over you, Maddy ; it will do just as well,’ said 
Alice. 

‘ Yes, if you like it ; but Miss Barnard will be sure to ob- 
serve it. Where can your Bible be ? ’ 

Madeline tried to find it amongst a heap of books. Ruth 
grew impatient, and said they could not stay, and Alice was 
obliged to go without her Bible. The reading did not begin 
directly. Miss Barnard was called away, and they waited at 
least ten minutes. Then, to their surprise, instead of Miss 
Barnard came Mrs Carter. She wished to hear them read, she 
said, instead of her sister, who was particularly engaged. Ruth’s 
face brightened extremely when she heard this. To read with 
Mrs Carter was a privilege generally reserved for the elder 
girls. 

Alice also was pleased. Mrs Carter’s eye was not as keen 
as Miss Barnard’s. Probably she would not remark the absence 
of the Bible. They were reading in the first Book of Kings. 
Mrs Carter read the chapter,- and afterwards questioned and 
talked to them about it. Alice felt she was safe from remark 
during reading, but when the questions began, and it was 
necessary to turn to references, she was uneasy. 

‘ You will each find a text in turn, my dears,’ said Mrs 
Carter. ‘ Ruth, you begin. But, Alice, you have no Bible.’ 

* I could not find it ; ' I had it just before, but I could not 
find it,’ replied Alice, blushing : ‘ and Madeline said I might 
look over her.’ 

‘ But that will not quite do. I wish you all to have Bibles 
of your own. Go and look again.’ 

Miss Barnard would probably have required a forfeit, and 
Alice thought that she had had a lucky escape. 

‘ What was Alice doing that her Bible was not ready ? ’ in- 
quired Mrs Carter. 

‘ Talking, ma’am,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ But that is no reason. Whom was she talking wkh ? ’ 

‘ There were several of us,’ said Janet ; ‘ I was talking too.’ 

Mrs Carter was a little grave for a few moments. 

‘ I thought you all had your texts to do,’ she said. 

‘ Yes, ma’am, but we had finished — at least, soipe of u^ 
Alice, I know, had.’ » 

Alice had left the door between the two rooms ajar, and 
-the whispering voices and laughter were more plainly heard. 
Mrs Carter made no further observations then. Alice having 


222 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


found her Bible, brought it back, read the reference, and 
answered the questions. The examination upon the last verse 
in the chapter was made, and Mrs Carter was expected to say, 

‘ Very well, my dears, now you may go ; ' but she did not say it. , 
She fixed her eyes upon the book which lay open before her, 
and did not speak for some seconds ; and when at length she 
looked up, her face wore the appearance of anxiety. 

‘ My dears,’ she said, ‘ it would giv^ me great pleasure to 
feel that I could trust you always, out of my sight as in it. It 
would save me much care and trouble. Ruth, I think you are 
to be depended on.’ 

A faint smile of satisfaction stole over Ruth’s face. 

‘ But, Alice,’ continued Mrs Carter, ^ I am not so sure of you ; 
and Janet, my dear, you have been strictly brought up. I trust 
you will not grow less careful here.’ 

‘ I try to remember the things mamma told me, ma’am,’ said 
Janet. 

‘ That is right. Always try and remember what your mamma 
tells you. But there are points on which, probably from not 
knowing your danger, she may not have warned you. One is 
about keeping the Sunday.’ 

‘ The girls do some things mamma would not let me do,’ 
said. Janet, very boldly. 

‘ It is not so much the particular things which I am anxious 
about,’ replied Mrs Carter, ‘ as the spirit of the day. It is 
God’s day ; — it is not at all like ordinary days ; and this is what 
I am afraid many of you forget when you are left together. 
Ruth, find out the fifty-eighth chapter of the prophecy of Isaiah, 
and read the two last verses.’ — ‘ If thou turn away thy foot from 
the sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day ; and call 
the sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, honourable ; and 
shalt honour. Him, not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine 
own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words : then shalt thou 
delight thyself in the Lord ; and I will cause thee to ride upon 
the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the heritage of 
Jacob thy father : for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.’ — 
When Ruth had finished, Mrs Carter said : — 

-’fNow these are two very beautiful and'striking verses ; even 
if you do not understand every word you must feel that they 
are meant to express how the favour of the Almighty was 
shown to those who kept the Jewish sabbath strictly. But 
our Sunday is not the Jewish sabbath ; it is the first day of 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


223 

the week, not the last, and it is kept in remembrance of — 
what, Alice ? ^ 

* Of our Saviour^s resurrection ^ replied Alice. 

‘ Yes ; it is a day of rest still, but it is a festival — a day of 
enjoyment; in commemoration of the most glorious event of our 
Lord’s life ; of that which gives us a sure and certain hope of a 
joyful resurrection also. If our Saviour had not risen from the 
dead, neither should we have had any hope of doing so. But as 
the day is especially our Saviour’s day, as it is often called “the 
Lord’s day,” so must it especially be given to Him. Do you 
know, Janet, what I mean by giving Sunday to our Saviour.?’ 

Janet hesitated, and then answered, that she supposed it was 
going to church, and saying prayers, and reading the Bible at 
home. 

‘ It is quite right to do those things,’ replied Mrs Carter, 

* but they do not entirely make the distinction between Sunday 
and a common day, because we ought, if possible, to do them 
every day. Madeline, you have not spoken at all; perhaps you 
can explain what I mean a little more clearly.’ 

Madeline’s colour mounted to her forehead, and it was in a 
low, doubtful tone that she asked, ^ If it was thinking about our 
Saviour ? ’ 

‘ Right, partly,’ observed Mrs Carter, encouragingly ; ‘ but 
that is not all I wished to say. You know what it is to keep a 
birthday. The person whose birthday it is, is the one object — 
the great person of the day. We are constantly thinking what he 
will like ; how we can please him : his wishes are consulted, 
and if we forget for a little while, we are always meeting with 
something to remind us of him. Now, our feeling on a Sunday 
should be of the same kind. Do you think it is .? ’ 

There was silence. 

‘ I am afraid, generally speaking, it is not,’ continued Mrs 
Carter ; ‘ especially when we have been to church, and return 
home, and join in common conversation, I am afraid we all are 
apt to forget that it is the Lord’s day. We make it our own 
day by talking of business and lessons, and indulging in idle 
jesting, perhaps about what was seen or done in church.’ 

* Mamma never told me I must not talk,’ said Janet. 

‘ Neither do I, my dear child,’ replied Mrs Carter, smiling, 

* We cannot be reading and praying all day ; even the very best 
persons cannot ; and we cannot think for a whole day about re- 
ligion. There is no harm whatever in quiet, cheerful conversa- 


224 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


tion, or in real friends meeting together ; and there is no harm 
in reading other books besides the Bible, as long as they are 
such as will help to make us more religious ; but there is harm 
in turning our minds to business or worldly pursuits ; in your 
troubling yourselves about your week’s lessons, for instance ; or 
in grown-up persons settling accounts, or arranging their 
affairs ; and there is harm in idle, laughing conversation, which 
may prevent us from being serious and properly behaved at 
church. This is the conversation which I am afraid you are 
apt to indulge in. I do not ask you whether you are ; but I 
w'arn you against it as wrong.’ 

‘ Clara Manners told us how she spent her Sundays,’ said 
Janet, ‘ and I told how I spent mine ; I did not know it was 
wrong.’ 

‘ My dear Janet,’ replied Mrs Carter, ‘it is impossible for me 
or for any person to decide in every particular case what is wrong 
or not. I can only give you general advice as to the subjects you 
should not talk about, and the things which you should not do. 
But one thing I will say to you all. Sunday is a day for religion. 
When we are entirely religious in our inmost hearts, we shall 
thoroughly enjoy it. Until we are so, there are times when it 
will seem dull to us — when it will be a burden to go to church, 
and very tiresome not to be able to amuse ourselves as we do 
on other days. This will be our fault. The only way to remedy 
it, is to try to be more religious, to love and serve God more. 
And remember, it is much better to be too particular than not 
particular enough. If, whilst you are at school, you will try to 
remember the day, by occupying yourselves quietly, rather than 
talking idly ; reading the books which I choose for you, rather than 
your own story books ; and never indulging in ridicule of serious 
things, such as the manner in which the service is performed, 
the sermon, or the clergyman, or anything which may appear 
strange to you in church, you will certainly become more reli- 
gious, and the duties which are now a burden will be a pleasure 
to you. We begin by being strict when we do not like to be 
so, because it is our duty. We end by discovering that strict- 
ness has brought us to happiness. My dear children, God 
grant that you may one day find it so.’ 

Mrs Carter rose and closed her book. It was the signal for 
departure. Madeline, Alice, and Janet went first. Mrs Carter 
called Ruth back as she was following them, and kissing her, 
said : ‘ Ruth, that is one of the points on which you may set a 
good example, and be of great use to me when Mary is gone.* 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


225 


Ruth grew a little nervous and shy, but promised that she would 
do her best, and then returned to the school-room. 

Alice did not go back to her former companions. Mrs 
Carter’s kind remarks touched her conscience more than any 
reproofs. She meant to read, but she was interrupted. Ruth 
repeated what had passed, not in an authoritative tone, as Anna 
Grant would have done, but quietly and humbly, so as not to 
give offence. Then she took her former place at the table. If 
she w’as self-satisfied, her manner did not betray it. 

‘ Well, if we must not talk, I should like to know what we 
may do,’ said Fanny Wilson ; ‘ I shall go into the garden.’ 

‘ You must ask first, Fanny,’ said Janet. 

‘ Yes, but I am afraid ; I never ask if I can help it. Alice, 
you are bold — will you ask 1 ’ 

^ I do not wish to go into the garden,’ said Alice. 

‘ Oh ! but just ask ; if you don’t go yourself, ask for us ; 
please do. Or, Madeline, perhaps you will.’ 

‘ Madeline is not here,’ said Jessie O’Neile. ‘ She is gone 
into the dressing-room with a book.’ 

‘ Then, Alice, do be good-natured.’ 

I do not like asking, any more than you do, Fanny,’ an- 
swered Alice : — ‘ however, I suppose I must,’ — and she went. 
She passed the dressing-room door on her way to the study. 
Madeline was there, but she was not alone, for several voices 
met Alice’s ear. ‘Now what is it? do tell me,’ she heard 
hladeline say, and upon opening the door from curiosity, 
Madeline turned round, exclaiming : ‘ Here is Alice, now 
she will make you tell. Alice, they have a secret ; do help 
find it out.’ 

‘ Try, try, you are very welcome,’ said Clara Manners. 

‘ I have kno^vn they have had a secret some time,’ observed 
Alice ; ‘ but they would not let me into it.’ 

‘ And you sleeping in the same room ? ’ cried Madeline. 

‘ What a shame ! ’ 

‘ Now, Maddy, take my advice,’ said Clara; ‘ you are a good, 
little, simple thing ; don’t wish to be any wiser — just let me go 
my way, and you go yours.’ 

‘ Then you mean to tell Alice ? ’ inquired Madeline. 

‘ Never mind what we mean to do; only go away, and leave 
us to ourselves.’ 

* I came here to read,’ continued Madeline ; ‘ because there 
is always so much talking in the school-room.’ 

p 


226 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


‘ Well, then ! you see that you came to no purpose. We are 
here before you.’ 

‘ Some of them are going into the garden,’ observed Alice. 
‘ I am to ask Mrs Carter if they may; and then the school-room 
will be quite quiet.’ 

‘ No, no, Alice, you stay here,’ said Clara; ‘ and, Maddy, you 
are always good-natured ; you will go, I am sure.’ ‘ And let 
Alice hear the secret.?’ replied Madeline, feeling a little angry 
and very curious. Some one opened the door quietly ; it was 
Ruth, come to look for Madeline. Mary Vernon was reading 
such an interesting book, she was certain her sister would like 
to hear it. ‘ And Mary thought you would like it too, Alice,’ 
she added. 

Madeline promised she would come directly; and Ruth closed 
the door, but in an instant re-opened it. 

^ Madeline, Mary said particularly she wished you to come : 
she wants you very much.’ 

‘ I will come in one minute ; only one minute.’ Ruth was 
gone. Madeline felt that she ought to follow her — but her 
curiosity was great. Perhaps, if she asked again, Clara would 
tell her the secret. Madeline stood in a musing attitude, whilst 
Clara, Florence, and Harriet whispered together ; and Alice 
waited, under the idea that Madeline was deciding whether she 
would go to Mrs Carter or not. 

Alice took up a book which was lying on a chair. ‘ Ma- 
deline,’ she said, ^ this is your book ; how could it come 
here ? ’ 

It was Madeline’s Bible. She had brought it in by mistake. 
The circumstance seemed quite accidental — but it recalled a 
serious thought to Madeline’s mind. It made her think of her 
prayers ; especially her few short prayers in that room, and her 
good resolutions, and Mrs Carter’s warnings. She turned the 
handle of the door, and said : ‘ Alice, I will go to Mrs Carter if 
you wish it ; but won’t you come back to the school-room .? 
Mary and Ruth say we had better.’ 

‘ No, stay, stay,’ whisper-ed Clara. 

‘ And you shall hear the secret,’ said Harriet in the same tone. 

Alice wavered. ‘ I will come presently, Madeline ; don’t 
wait for me.’ 

‘ But, Alice ! you would like to be with Ruth and Mary,’ 

‘ Yes, very much ; 'I will come ! ’ Alice had better thoughts 
also, of the advice she had just received, and of Lady Catharine, 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


227 


and her mamma, and her own wishes to be good. ‘ I will really 
come, Madeline; but don’t wait.’ 

It seemed of no consequence whether Alice stayed a minute 
longer or not. Madeline went to Mrs Carter ; permission was 
given for those who liked it to go into the garden. Ruth, 
Madeline, and Mary Vernon spent the next half-hour together. 
Then all were summoned to tea ; and the last of the party who 
entered the dining-room, looking hurried and uncomfortable, 
were Clara, Alice, and Florence and Harriet Trevelyan. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A WARM, bright morning, at the end of May, was almost 
as pleasant in the neighbourhood of London as in the 
country. The leaves upon the large tree in the centre of the 
garden were about to burst into full beauty ; the turf was as yet 
quite green ; the gravel walk had been newly trimmed, and there 
were early flowers in the borders, with colours as brilliant as if 
they had been born hundreds of miles from the smoke and dust 
of a crowded city. Ruth stood at the window, and looked up 
into the soft blue heaven. How calm and pure it was ! how 
free from change ! It seemed as if the eye could travel on and 
on, higher and higher, farther and farther into its depth, and 
never meet with check or obstacle. It was something which 
had no end. Ruth’s heart felt light. The bird which crossed 
the sky, a speck in the dazzling sunshine, gone almost as soon 
as seen, was not more free from thoughts of care. Ruth was 
enjoying the freedom and delight of a school holiday. It was 
Mrs Carter’s birthday. There were no lessons, no masters. 
She was to do as she pleased all day. Ruth had not quite made 
up her mind what her pleasure would be ; but she was happy. 
For a time it was enjoyment enough to sit upon the window-seat 
in the warmth of the sun, and watch the whirling of the insects 
in the garden, and mark the different colours of the flowers, and 
listen first to the clear, thrilling song of a bird amongst the 
shrubs, and then turn from it to the heavy, rumbling, unceasing 
sound of the succession of carriages, and omnibuses, and the 
hundreds of human beings, who were passing to and fro on the 
great road which led into the very heart of London. 


228 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


Mrs Carter came into the room, and Miss Barnard with her. 
They had both a peculiar holiday smile, though Mrs Carter’s 
was by far the sweeter of the two. Ruth was never afraid of 
seeing Mrs Carter, especially on a holiday ; she was not con- 
scious of having anything to conceal. She sat still in the same 
position, for she did not imagine that Mrs Carter could have 
business with her. But she heard her name called. She was 
wanted, and Alice and Madeline, Mary Vernon, Clara, Janet, 
Jessie, and one or two others. What could it be for.? Mrs 
Carter looked as persons often look when they are certain of 
giving pleasure. 

‘ My dears,’ she said — and then she glanced around, and 
smiled still more kindly : but why did she not speak a little 
quicker ? Ruth longed for the words to come — ‘ My dears, this 
is a holiday. I should like to give you some amusement — at 
least, some of you.’ 

‘ Thank you, ma’am ; ’ but they were all too impatient to be 
very cordial. 

‘ I have been thinking of a party to Richmond.’ Madeline 
nearly jumped with delight. ‘ I believe none of you have been 
there — none of you, I mean, whom I have named. Have any 
of you ? ’ 

No, not one ; they had all been longing to go for a great 
while, but they had never had the opportunity. 

‘ Well, then ! I cannot take all the school — only a few; those 
who did not go the last time, or who were not here ; and the 
others must enjoy themselves as well as they can at home.’ 

Bright as the sun had appeared to Ruth before, it was tenfold 
more bright now. The thanks were not very loud and a little 
constrained. It is more difficult to receive a favour well than 
to bestow it. But Mrs Carter did not want words. She knew 
well the pleasure she was giving, and left them, after begging 
they would prepare immediately ; for they must drive into Lon- 
don, and go down to Richmond by one of the river steamers. 
Miss Barnard remained in the school-room for a few minutes, 
and relaxing from her usual severity, wished to know what she 
could do for those who were to stay behind ; how she could 
assist them in amusing themselves. Mrs Carter had no objec- 
tion to their choosing a book from the study to read aloud, if 
they liked it ; and if they wished for any working materials — 
lambs’ wool, crochet needles, cardboard, silks — anything in short 
■ — -Dawson should go out and execute the commission. Also, 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


229 


the agreeable facts were announced, that the cook had made 
a large cake for the evening, and that the fruit-woman had 
been ordered to call, in case any of them should like to buy 
of her. 

. ‘ Ours is the best school in London, I protest it is,’ said 
Fanny 'Wilson, as she seated herself upon the top of her desk, 
and looked round with an air of great satisfaction. ‘ But who 
is going to Richmond? You, Ruth, and Madeline, and Clara, 
and who else?’ 

‘ Alice,’ added Clara, ‘ and Jessie, and — but I don’t know 
who ; every one must take care of herself. Now, Alice, you and 
I will go and dress.’ 

‘ We must all go,’ observed Madeline. 

‘ Yes, of course ; but all is not my concern. Come, Alice.’ 
Alice did not follow. 

‘ Maddy, you be my friend for the day,’ said Janet Harding. 

‘ Well, yes, if I can — certainly I will.’ 

‘ And, Ruth, shall I walk with you?’ inquired Alice. 

‘ No, no, no, Alice ; I am to have Ruth,’ exclaimed Jessie ; 
and she seized Ruth’s hand in both hers. ‘ My dear, dar- 
ling Ruth, I am to have her all day, all to myself. Alice, indeed 
you can’t.’ 

‘ I think I must have Jessie,’ said Ruth, in a very kind voice. 

^ You know, Alice, she is so little.’ 

Jessie clung to her, and said, ‘ Dear, darling Ruth,’ again. 

It was very winning in her. Alice spoke not another word. 
She put a few stray things into her desk, locked it, and went to 
dress. 

It is a cheerful, pleasant thing to catch the first glimpse of 
the river Thames, as it flows through London, crowded with 
steamers, barges, fishing-boats, and little pleasure skiffs, so 
narrow and light that they seem scarcely able to bear the weight 
of a single person ; but it is still more pleasant to escape from 
the whirl and confusion of shipping and business, the loading 
and unloading of vessels at the wharv^es, the calling of porters 
an^ passengers, and the ringing'of bells, and, after passing under 
the high, dark arches of the different bridges, to emerge again 
into the free air ; and by degrees leaving the long lines of ware- 
houses and narrow streets which border the river, to reach the 
open country, and see fields and hedgerows shining fresh and 
green in the morning light, and watch the flickering reflections 
of dark trees, floating, as it seems, underneath the cool, clear 


230 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


water of the river, and blending with the transparent blue of the 
cloudless sky. 

This was a pleasure such as Ruth had never enjoyed before. 
Even the open sea at Laneton scarcely seemed as delightful, 
for the coast was not very safe, and in consequence they scarcely 
ever went on the water. And at Ruth’s age there was a par- 
ticular charm in the life and cheerfulness of everything about 
her. The banks of the river were enlivened by villas and gar- 
dens, and fine trees ornamented the large park like fields. Ruth 
was not inclined to find fault with the numerous houses, and 
when they came to large villages, which Mrs Carter said seemed 
like the suburbs of London, Ruth fancied that she was speak- 
ing rather in their praise than not. Everything on this day, 
from the hot steam-packet to the long walk after they landed, 
was agreeable to her. Only one of the party appeared not 
thoroughly happy. Alice sat by Clara Manners, but she did not 
enter into her jokes. She was listless and silent. Mrs Carter 
remarked it, and inquired if she had a headache. But no, Alice 
was quite well ; she made no complaints of any kind ; though 
she looked at Jessie O’Neile with something of an envious eye. 
Yet when the seat by Ruth was afterwards left vacant,^ she did 
not offer to take it. 

‘ You will keep in order, my dears, in walking through the 
town,’ said Mrs Carter, when they reached Richmond. ‘Now 
go, one by one ; don’t be in a hurry.’ 

The landing occupied but a few minutes, and then, whilst 
Mrs Carter was giving some instructions to a servant, they 
divided into pairs according to the direction. There was an 
uneven number. Alice kept back ; she thought it would be 
pleasant to walk with Mrs Carter, and she intended to ask. 

Clara Manners came up to claim her. 

‘ Alice, you know you and I are to be friends to-day.’ 

‘ No, Clara, I never said so. I never promised to walk with 
you.’ 

‘ Oh ! yes, you did. I understood so ; and what do you want 
to do else 1 ’ , 

‘ I should like to walk with Mrs Carter.’ 

‘ Walk with Mrs Carter! what a good little child I Jessie 
O’Neile likes walking with Mrs Carter ; she tells her pretty 
stories.’ 

‘ I do not wish to hear stories,’ said Alice. 

‘ Only to learn to be prim. My brother Charles says there 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


231 

is not sucli arxOther prim old lady in England. He always calls 
her the Kensington Primer.^ Alice laughed. 

‘ Look at her, just look at her now,’ said Clara, ‘ bowing and 
curtseying to that woman with a purple shawl. I declare they 
are a capital match. Now again there is the bow. See Alice — 
this way,’ and Clara gave an exaggerated imitation of Mrs 
Carter’s bow. 

‘ Hush, Clara, be quiet, do ; people will see you.’ 

‘ I don’t care ; why should I .? We are told to follow our 
superiors. Now, my dears, hold up your heads, walk properly, 
straight on.’ 

The manner was so like Mrs Carter’s, that all who were near 
smiled, and the smile encouraged Clara to proceed. 

‘ What a time she is coming ! what can they be saying ? 
Such heaps of good-byes ! and kisses ! I protest she is kissing 
that baby. That is because some day, she thinks, it will come 
to school. I know that is the reason.’ 

‘ Well ! and if it is, where is the harm ? ’ said Alice. 

‘ No harm; who said there was harm.^ I would kiss babies 
all day long if I thought I was to get so much money for it.’ 

The kiss to the baby was the farewell greeting between Mrs 
Carter and her friend. 

The lady in the purple shawl pursued her way over Richmond 
Bridge, and Mrs Carter came back to her young party, telling 
them that she was really sorry to have delayed them so long, 
but that she had just met with a friend whom she had not seen 
before for two years. Now, they were to go through the street, 
and then turn to the left up the hill. A lady living near, one 
who had formerly been a pupil of Mrs Carter’s, was wishing to 
see them ; they were to dine at her house. Those who were in 
advance moved on. Mrs Carter was standing alone. Alice 
thought of her intended request, but the wish to walk with Mrs 
Carter was over. Clara took her arm as a matter of course, 
and Alice went with her. 

The High Street of Richmond was not very tempting after 
Regent Street, but it was a novelty, and that did just as well ; 
and besides it was not crowded, and therefore more agreeable 
for walking ; and, as they proceeded, there were views of the 
river and the opposite banks, very fresh and lovely and unlike 
London. 

Janet Harding found a little cause for complaint in the idea 
of going amongst strangers, but she was reassured by Madeline’s 


212 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


reminding her that Mrs Vansittart had been at school herself, 
and therefore must know all about school-girls. Then the tone 
of her voice grew more cheerful, and she acknowledged, as they 
stood at the gate, nearly at the summit of Richmond Hill, that 
it did look as if the grounds within the palings must be ex- 
tremely pretty. 

But there was a disappointment in store for them, at least for 
Mrs Carter. Mrs Vansittart had been sent for that morning to 
see an aunt who was ill. No one was at home to receive them ; 
but a cold dinner was prepared, and a note was left for Mrs 
Carter, begging her to make use of the house as if it were her 
own. Janet Harding thought the arrangement a fortunate one, 
and Mrs Carter alone was really sorry, for Mrs Vansittart had 
been a favourite pupil. If the annoyance had been on the part 
of the children, the pleasure of the whole party might have been 
spoiled ; but Mrs Carter was thoroughly unselfish, and never 
allowed her own vexation to interfere with the happiness of 
others. 

The house — a large, square, brick building, with stone facings 
— was not particularly picturesque ; but it stood in a beautiful 
garden, from which might be seen the steep fields leading down 
to the town, and the long reach of the river gliding onwards 
through the meadows, and losing itself amidst the richness of 
the distant country, which stretched mile after mile towards 
the far horizon, becoming softer and more purple in its hues 
as trees, and houses, and hills blended their outlines and their 
colouring together, until all were mingled at last in a faint, 
blue misty shadow, scarcely distinguishable from the vapoury 
sky. Ruth sat alone for some time on a pleasant seat over- 
looking the lovely landscape. She was not inclined for play ; 
she never was when enjoying very beautiful scenery. The sight 
of it made her quiet — it might almost have been termed sad ; 
but the sadness was so pleasant she would not have exchanged 
it for mirth. 

A gentle footstep was heard, and Madeline, as she sat down 
beside her sister, said — 

‘ Is it prettier than Laneton, Ruth.?’ 

^ I don’t know ; I think it must be. How far we can see ! 
Look! quite away. Mrs Carter says that Windsor is out 
there.’ 

‘ I like it — I like it very much — very much indeed,’ said 
Madeline ; ‘ but I don’t want it to be prettier than Laneton.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


233 


* I would rather live at Laneton/ replied Ruth, ^ and so would 
papa and mamma ; because of all the poor people, and the 
church, and the sea/ 

‘ And it is very pretty, is it not,’ continued Madeline, ‘ down 
on the shore when the tide is coming in, with the rocks and the 
cliffs ? I wish mamma could see this, and tell us which is the 
prettiest/ 

‘ Mamma would be very glad to be here to-day,’ said Ruth. 
‘ I should be so glad if she was, and dear papa too.’ 

‘ I always think about home on holidays,’ observed Madeline, 
‘ more than I do on any other days, because I am not so busy. 
But do you know, Ruth, I don’t think some of the girls care 
much about their homes. Clara Manners does not.’ 

A burst of laughter reached them just at that moment. 
Clara’s voice was heard very distinctly. 

‘ Now, my dears, proceed slowly. Hold up you head, Alice ;’ 
and, with another shout of laughter, a little procession, walking 
two and two, came up the path which led from the lower part of 
the garden. Jessie O’Neile headed it. 

‘ They are mimicking Mrs Carter — how very wi'ong ! ’ 
exclaimed Ruth ; ‘ and she will see them. How can Clara do 
such things ! ’ 

‘ And Alice is there,’ said Madeline. * I wonder she joins.’ 

< Jessie — Jessie ! ’ called out Ruth. 

‘ Fair play, Ruth,’ exclaimed Clara ; ‘ I won’t have my 
scholars taken from me. Now, my dears, toes turned out, 
shoulders down.’ 

‘Jessie, that is very naughty. Come to me,’ said Ruth 
again. 

The child stopped, and immediately the rest of the party 
stopped too. 

‘ Clara, you know you ought not — ^you know it as well as I 
do,’ said Ruth, going up to her. 

‘ Know what ? That there is any harm in walking round 
the garden ? We were told to do it. Don’t stop us, if you 
please. On, my dears, on. We have no time to lose.’ 

Clara was an excellent mimic, and Ruth had real difficulty in 
keeping her countenance. She caught Jessie’s frock. 

‘Come to me, Jessie ; don’t stay with them. Come to me, I 
want to talk to you.’ Jessie left her companion, and followed 
Ruth. Alice looked after her, and stepped aside as if she would 
have turned back also. Ruth took no notice, but Clara ran up 


234 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


to her, and said : ‘ Alice, don’t go ; it is only Ruth’s nonsense. 
There can’t be any harm in having a little fun ; ’ and Alice 
moved on. But there were no more shouts of laughter — at 
least Alice did not join in them ; and after again making the 
round of the garden, Alice stepped away from the party unper- 
ceived, and wandered into a walk by herself ; a quiet, shady 
walk, with the shrubs growing high enough to conceal any one 
who might be there. Why did this pleasant, bright day make 
Alice sad ? Why was her mirth so little from the heart ? How 
was it that those whose society she cared for thought little about 
her, and those whom she never could respect were always 
forcing themselves into her company ? Alice deemed herself 
very unfortunate ; and again she said, as she had so often done 
before, that it was in vain to try to be good ; in vain to think 
of pleasing Lady Catharine ; in vain to endeavour to be like her 
dear mamma : because she was placed by circumstances with 
those who were always doing wrong. If Ruth were fond of her, 
if Mary Vernon would notice her, if she did not sleep in the 
same room and sit at the same desk with Clara Manners, she 
might be better ; but, now, it was impossiWe. 

Alice walked till she was tired, but she would not go to the 
bench where Ruth and Madeline were, for she felt ashamed. 
The trunk of a fallen tree lay stretched across the path, and she 
sat down on it to rest. Her heart was heavy, for her conscience 
was uneasy. How long she sat there she did not think. It 
was quiet and warm, and Alice did not wish to be interrupted. 
Sad though her thoughts were, she liked better to indulge them 
than to join in mirth which she did not feel. Alice sometimes 
pondered very seriously upon what life really was ; how strange 
it was ; how wonderful that she should be able to live and move, 
and converse, and think ; how wonderful that trees should grow, 
and flowers blossom, and the sun shine, and the wind blow ; 
how still more wonderful and awful, that such numbers and 
numbers of persons should have dwelt upon earth since it was 
created ; that they should have lived the same sort of life which 
she was then living, and now that they should all be gone — 
gone, no one knew where — gone either to happiness or misery. 
It was very awful ! Alice was not at all happy when the idea 
came before her, for her faults came also. 

She was still thinking, when Mary Vernon came into the 
walk. Mary did not perceive Alice until she was quite close to 
her, and then she started and said — 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


235 


* Alice, you here alone ! * 

*• Yes,’ leplied Alice, ‘ I am tired.’ 

‘ Are you t but why did you run about when you knew we 
were to have a long walk after dinner ? ’ * 

‘ We did not run, we only walked,’ replied Alice. 

Then you were with Clara,’ said Mary, not without some 
hesitation. 

‘ Yes, for a little while. Why dp you ask ? ’ 

‘ Because, Alice, I wish you would not do what Clara tells 
you.’ 

‘ She asks me, she does not tell me,’ said Alice. 

* Well, asking or telling, it is very much the same. You do 
the things.’ 

‘ Not all,’ replied Alice, ^and often I don’t wish to do them ; 
but I cannot help it.’ 

‘ Are you sure of that, dear Alice ? This morning, for 
instance.’ 

Mary spoke very mildly, but Alice felt angry. 

* This morning was all nonsense, Mary. I daresay Ruth has 
been talking to you about it ; but really she makes such moun- 
tains out of molehills, that it is quite absurd.’ 

‘ Ruth told me, certainly,’ replied Mary ; ^ but I cannot 
perceive there was anything absurd in what she said. She 
mentioned that several of you had been laughing at Mrs Carter.’ 

* Not laughing at her, herself ; only at her odd ways.’ 

‘ But that must be laughing at herself. Her ways are a part 
of herself.’ 

‘ And if they are absurd they must be laughed at,’ persisted 
Alice.’ 

‘Not by you, nor by me, Alice,’ replied Mary, very gravely. 
‘ We are placed under her : we are in a manner her children.’ 

‘ I don’t see that,’ said Alice. 

‘ Who takes care of us here ? Who teaches us ? Whom 
are we bound to obey ? ’ inquired Mary. 

‘ Oh ! Mrs Carter, of course ; but, Mary, there must be a 
great difference. If I had a mamma,’ and Alice’s voice faltered, 
‘ I should never laugh at her.’ 

‘ But you would not obey and honour her, I am afraid,’ con- 
tinued Mary. 

‘ Not honour her ! Oh ! yes, Mary; you don’t know what 
my mamma was like.’ 

‘ Ruth says she was very good indeed,’ answered Mary; ‘and 


236 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


I am quite sure, in that case, that she would never bear youf 
being disrespectful.’ 

Alice became suddenly thoughtful. 

‘ I did not mean to be irreverent,’ she said, at length, with 
greater softness of manner. 

‘ But, dear Alice, can you not understand that all persons 
who are put over us — whether they are parents, or clergymen, 
or governesses — are put over us by God ; and therefore we are 
not to ask whether we like them, but we are to obey and show 
them reverence, because it is His will. And you know, only 
yesterday, we were told in the sermon at church, that when 
we are commanded to “ honour our father and mother,” it 
means that we are to pay respect to all persons who have 
authority over us.’ 

‘ I am always respectful when I speak to Mrs Carter,’ said 
Alice. 

‘ But, Alice, you would not like to be a hypocrite.’ 

‘ A hypocrite ! No, how shocking ! ’ 

‘ Yet if you honour Mrs Carter before her face, and mimic 
her behind her back, it is something very like hypocrisy.’ 

‘ I should not do it, if Clara did not begin,’ said Alice. 

‘ And do you always mean to follow what Clara begins,’ asked 
Mary. 

‘ I do not mean anything,’ exclaimed Alice, impatiently. ‘ I 
do just what comes in my way ; but if you think it is wrong to 
mimic Mrs Carter, I will not do it again.’ 

Alice rose from her seat, and would have walked away, but 
Mary detained her. 

‘ Alice, dear, you are angry with me. I am extremely sorry.’ 

Marys humble tone struck Alice as a reproach for her 
hastiness. 

‘ I am very naughty, Mary,’ she said, turning round, whilst 
tears filled her eyes ; ‘ but I cannot help it. I do really wish 
to be good,' and I won’t mimic Mrs Carter any more.’ 

‘ And, Alice, will you try to keep away from Clara Manners? ’ 

‘ If I can ; I will do anything I can ; but no one cares for 
me — no one ever wishes to be with me.’ 

‘ Yes, I wish it ; and Ruth.’ 

‘ No, indeed, Ruth never does ; she would not have me to- 
day to walk with her. I know why it is ; I am not good enough 
for her.’ 

‘ And can you ever become better by being with Clara 
Manners ? ’ 


LANE TON PAKSONAGE. 


237 

‘ No ; but I sleep in the same room, and sit at the same desk, 
and so I must be with her/ 

‘ It is very hard,’ said Mary, half speaking to herself. ‘ But, 
Alice,’ she added, ‘ if you were to endeavour not to follow Clara’s 
ways, if you were to say you did not like them, then Ruth and 
those w^ho are steady would try to have you with them. But 
they see you laughing with Clara, and then they think you pre- 
fer her company. Any one instance in which you would stand 
aloof from Clara would be a beginning, and make them wish 
more to be with you. So you see it is in your own power.’ 

Alice remained silent. 

‘ You will try, won’t you, dear Alice ?’ continued Mary ; ‘and 
especially about mimicking and ridiculing. You know how 
Clara laughs at the clergyman, and it always gives me such 
pain to hear her ; it is so extremely wrong.’ 

‘ I do think laughing at clergymen is wrong,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yet you laugh with Clara, and encourage her ; you do not 
try to stop her.’ 

‘ If I could think about it at the time,’ continued Alice ; ‘ but 
I forget.’ 

‘ It must be of great consequence to be particular,’ said 
Mary ; ‘ because the commandment about paying honour is the 
first which has a promise with it.’ 

‘ That promise was to the Jews,’ replied Alice ; ‘ there is no 
land for us to live long in.’ 

‘ Only heaven,’ said Mary, quietly, but very solemnly. 

Alice looked at her earnestly. 

‘ Mary,’ she said, ‘ I wish I was as sure of going to heaven 
as you are.’ 

‘ O Alice ! ’ exclaimed Mary, ‘ how can I possibly be sure 
of it ? Persons who are ever so good are not sure ; but I 
should be glad to feel that I was trying to make myself fit for 
it ; and I was told once, that a very good way of trying is by 
being reverent and showing respect, because then we are always 
reminded of having some one above us.’ 

‘ I do respect people very much,’ said Alice. ‘ I respect Mrs 
Carter, and a great many people ; but I cannot help laughing 
at them when Clara is so absurd, though I am always sorry 
afterwards.’ 

Mary looked vexed and puzzled. She was not accustomed 
to meet with a character like Alice’s — one which could so plainly 
see the right, and yet so constantly follow the wrong. She was 
not able to pursue the conversation, for they were interrupted 


238 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


by Ruth, who had been looking for Mary to go into dinner with 
her. 

Ruth seemed surprised at finding Mary and Alice together, 
but she asked no questions ; and Alice immediately felt herself 
thrown into the background, when she saw that Ruth took it as 
a matter of course that Mary would like being with her rather 
than with any one else. 

‘ Now, Jessie, will you be my little companion through the 
park ? ’ said Mrs Carter, when the dinner was over, and the 
party collected in the hall prepared for their walk. Jessie ran 
up to Mrs Carter, and took possession of one hand. Alice had 
an inclination to go to the other side. Mrs Carter noticed the 
direction of her glance. 

‘ Alice, my dear,^ she said, ‘ you and I have not had a walk 
together for some time : will you come, if you have not pro- 
mised any of your companions Alice coloured and looked 
pleased. 

‘ You can’t, you are engaged,’ whispered Clara Manners be- 
hind her. 

* Never mind, my dear,’ continued Mrs Carter, seeing Alice’s 
hesitation ; ‘ I merely thought you were not engaged.’ 

Alice blushed more deeply. 

‘ Turn out your toes, hold up your head, my dear,’ mimicked 
Clara, in a very low whisper. 

The corners of Alice’s mouth worked with repressed laughter. 

‘ Are you engaged?’ asked Mrs Carter, still more kindly. 

‘ Kensington Primer,’ whispered Clara. 

Alice at length found a voice to answer — 

‘ I — I don’t know, ma’am ; I thought ’ — she looked round 
for Clara, who came forward boldly. 

‘ Alice is engaged to me, ma’am.’ 

‘ Oh ! very well. Why did you not say so at once, my 
love ? ’ 

‘ Then may I walk with you, ma’am ?’ inquired Ruth, coming 
forward. Mrs Carter smiled, held out her hand, and gave the 
order to proceed. 

There are many lovely walks in Richmond Park, along the 
broad terrace looking over the river, and by the enclosed gar- 
dens of the few houses which are built in the Park ; and farther 
away, in the more retired parts, where the grass is unworn save 
by the tread of the deer scattered about amongst the branching 
oaks ; and fern, and heath, and wild flowers, cause one quite to 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


239 


forget that within but a few miles lies the dense mass of houses, 
churches, and public buildings, which form the largest city now 
in the world. 

‘ It is very pleasant, Alice, is it not said Madeline, as they 
waited for a few moments not to lose sight of Mrs Carter, who 
was walking slowly behind. 

‘ Yes, very — very pretty indeed. But, Clara ’ — and Alice . 
turned away from Madeline as she spoke — ‘ I don’t understand 
what you are saying.’ 

‘Hush! can’t you.^’ exclaimed Clara, drawing her aside. 

‘ Alice, I never will tell you anything, if you are so foolish.’ 

‘ Oh ! Madeline would not know ; she never listens.’ 

‘ But I am sure she would know ; she is as sharp as a 
needle on some points, and I would not tell her or Ruth for the 
world.’ 

‘ Then why tell me ? I don’t wish to hear.’ 

‘ Nonsense, Alice ; you must hear. You sleep in our room, 
and you must ; besides, you cannot help yourself. You know 
that book we were reading the other Sunday in the dressing- 
room ? ’ 

‘ Yes. We finished it, I thought.’ 

‘ So we did ; but we can get some more. Shouldn’t you 
like it ? ’ 

‘ Perhaps — I am not sure. Mrs Carter does not choose us 
to read books without her seeing them.’ 

‘ Oh, nonsense I there is no harm in the book. You did not 
hear any, did you ? ’ 

‘ It was very amusing,’ replied Alice, in a doubtful tone, ‘ but 
we ought not to have read it on a Sunday.’ 

‘Well, perhaps we ought not; we need not do it again. — But 
on other days. Justine can get us as many as we like; only we 
must keep the matter to ourselves, and read them carefully when 
we have a few minutes to spare in the day, and a little at night, 
if we are quick in undressing.’ 

‘ I don’t wish to have anything to do with it,’ said Alice. 

‘ I thought the other day it was very wrong in us to read story 
books in the dressing-room on a Sunday.’ 

‘ On a Sunday ! How you will persist in talking about 
Sunday,’ replied Clara. ‘We need never do it again on a 
Sunday.’ 

‘ But on any day I had rather not.’ 

Cara’s countenance expressed great surprise. 


240 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 


‘ Why, Alice, what have you been doing ? What has made 
you so particular all of a sudden ? ' 

‘It is not of a sudden,’ replied Alice, not choosing to acknow- 
ledge the influence of Mary Vernon’s conversation. ‘ I have been 
sorry for what I did on that Sunday ever since ! ’ 

‘ Sunday again ! ’ repeated Clara, impatiently. ‘ You shall 
engage, if you like, never to read them except on common 
days. Justine will bring them, and we can enjoy them quietly 
at night when we go to bed.’ 

‘ If they are Justine’s books, they will be French,’ said Alice; 
‘ and I cannot read French easily without a dictionary.’ 

‘They are not French,’ answered Clara; ‘they are English. 
Justine reads them in French, but she can get translations for 
us ; only, we must all subscribe.’ 

‘ Then it is no use to talk to me,’ said Alice ; ‘ I cannot 
afford it.’ 

‘ You can manage somehow. I will lend you the money, 
and you can pay me next half-year.’ 

‘ No, thank you; I had rather not.’ 

‘ But, Alice, you must ; you sleep in our room, and we are 
all going to do it — Florence, and Harriet, and I.’ 

‘ I cannot see that sleeping in your room is any reason,’ ob- 
served Alice, angrily. 

‘ Then you will not hear the books, or look at them ? ’ per- 
sisted Clara ; ‘ and Justine says they are extremely pretty — 
quite beautiful, indeed.’ 

‘ Mrs Carter would not like it,’ said Alice. 

‘ If you once begin with those fancies, there is an end of it,* 
exclaimed Clara, impetuously. ‘ You will be as bad as Ruth, 
who is always saying that Mrs Carter, or her papa, or mamma, 
or some tiresome person or another, will not like it.’ 

Clara had, unknowingly, defeated her own purpose. She 
had touched upon a point on which her companion was at that 
instant particularly susceptible. The spirit of reverence was 
one of the most hopeful traits in Alice’s disposition. Even 
when induced to join in ridicule, she was never free from self- 
reproach. Clara’s expression, applied to Mr and Mrs Clifford, 
shocked her. She did not, however, withdraw at once, as 
Madeline would have done. Alice was always apt to waver, 
and she did not fully see how wrong the action proposed would 
be. She said she would think about it ; she would not say 
yes ; she thought they might do without her ; and Clara, who 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


241 


was soon tired of Alice when she had in any way what was 
called ‘ a good fit ^ upon her, presently left her. Then Alice 
was more happy. She had, in a manner, resisted tempta- 
tion. Jessie ran away from Mrs Carter to play amongst the 
trees, and Alice took her place. The walk seemed to grow 
more pleasant from that moment. Mrs Carter had spent many 
of her young days at Richmond, and she had amusing stories 
to tell them of what she had done there. She knew also all 
the houses, and the names of several of the persons who lived 
in them, and she could point out the high mound where it 
is said that Henry the Eighth stood, looking over towards 
London, and w'atching till the rocket should be sent up into 
the air which was to give notice of the execution of Anne 
Boleyn. Alice began to feel that to be with persons older than 
herself, w^ho were willing to notice and teach her, and whom 
she could thoroughly respect, was much better than having an 
idle conversation with idle companions of her own age. 

The walk through the Park was ended, and there w^as just a 
quarter of an hour to spare before their return. Jessie wished 
to carry home a little remembrance of Richmond, and asked if 
she might go into a shop to buy something. She had a shil- 
ling with her, and she should like it very much. The idea once 
suggested, every one wished to do the same. Mrs Carter gave 
permission for ‘ a shilling — only a shilling — to be spent, and 
spent quickly ; there was no time to lose — and the instant 
the consent was obtained the shop was entered, and the shop- 
women were besieged with wants and questions. Madeline and 
Ruth agreed to put their shillings together, and buy a little silk 
box for their mamma — a morocco one, with rosewood winders, 
and the coloured silks all prepared. A smaller box, with cedar 
winders, Alice thought would just please Lady Catharine, and 
she was more anxious to buy something for her than for any ot 
her schoolfellows. She put her hand into her pocket, but her 
purse was not there. She recollected having left it behind 
her, in her desk. She had taken it in her hand just before 
they came out, and then replaced it, thinking it would not be 
wanted. 

‘ What shall I do .? who will lend me softie money 1 Please 
help me ! ’ she exclaimed, in distress. Mrs Carter was not near, 
and every one else was busied with the purchases. 

Madeline, however, heard, and, coming up to her, said, ‘ Do 
you want money, Alice 1 I can lend you some.’ 

Q 


242 LANETON PARSONAGE. 

‘Yes, a shilling, if you would ; but they are just going — 
look/ 

Mrs Carter was hastening the putting up of the several par- 
cels ; she was afraid of being late for the steamer. 

‘ The small silk case, if you please,’ said Alice, anxiously, to 
the shopwoman. ‘ Pray let me have it directly.’ 

But, before the string was properly tied, Mrs Carter and the 
rest of the party had left the shop. Alice put down the money 
upon the counter, and was just going, when she was called back. 
‘ The change. Miss ; you have forgotten the change,’ said the 
girl.’ 

Alice looked surprised. Madeline had given her half-a-crown 
by mistake. She took up the eighteen-pence, put it loose into 
the pocket of her dress, and hastened away. She meant to re- 
turn the money to Madeline immediately, but her thoughts were 
occupied with the fear of not overtaking Mrs Carter ; and when 
again seated on the deck of the steamer, Madeline was not near 
her, so that there was no convenient opportunity. 

Ruth was with Mrs Carter, who appeared to take a particular 
pleasure in conversing with her. Ruth made herself very use- 
ful. She saw that every one took her own shawl, and was 
mindful of Mrs Carter’s basket, and took care that Jessie should 
remain with her and be steady. She had a quiet way of order- 
ing and arranging, to which all were inclined to give way. 
Even Clara Manners followed Ruth’s suggestion, and then 
laughed and wondered how she could be foolish enough to at- 
tend to her. Ruth did not care for the laughter. She felt that 
her power in the school was increasing. 

Alice watched it all, and wished she was like her. It was 
the old wish, but it was stronger on this day. Alice had ex- 
perienced two states of mind, one arising from careless folly, 
from disrespect to her superiors, and idle companionship ; the 
other occasioned by the conversation with Mary Vernon, the 
example of Ruth and Madeline, and the society of Mrs Carter. 
She had no doubt that to look up and honour is much happier, 
as well as much better for us all, than to indulge in ridicule. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


243 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


LICE did not think of Madeline’s money on the evening 



after their return from Richmond, and, strange to say, 
Madeline did not inquire about it. The next day Alice remem- 
bered, but at an awkward time, in school, when she was not 
allowed to talk ; and then she recollected that she had not the 
same dress on which she had worn the day before, so that there 
would be no use in speaking to Madeline, for she could not give 
back the money till they went to bed. Alice was a procrasti- 
nator, and this kind of recollecting and delaying went on for 
some time. 

Clara again named the books and the subscription, but Alice 
would give no answer. She hoped the idea would pass away, 
for she knew that Justine had carried home the volumes which 
had been read, and she had heard her say to Clara, ‘ Remem- 
ber, they won’t let you have any more, unless you pay directly.’ 

Alice was very fond of reading, and if the books which Jus- 
tine promised to get were at all like that of which she had heard 
a part, she was sure they would be delightful, for they were in 
a style quite new to her, about grown-up persons, and Alice 
was just beginning to take a greater interest in the history of 
persons older than herself than in children’s story-books. 

But to counteract this temptation, there was the knowledge 
that Mrs Carter did not like any books to be read which she 
had not previously seen, and the certainty that the whole plan 
must be wrong, because Clara would not like it to be men- 
tioned to Ruth. 

Three days, however, after the Richmond party, as Alice 
was alone in the school-room just after tea, Clara and Florence 
Trevelyan looked in, and finding no one there besides Alice, 
Clara said : ‘ Alice, we have been wanting to speak to you 
au day.’ 

‘ I have been sitting opposite to you,’ replied Alice ; ‘ you 
have had plenty of opportunities for speaking.’ 

‘ Yes, but there are so many to listen,’ said Florence ; ‘ and 
Clara and I wish to talk to you by yourself. We want you to 
join us.’ 

‘ Join !’ repeated Alice ; ‘ Oh ! I remember — but I have told 
you I can’t, I have no money.’ 


244 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


‘ Never mind the money/ said Clara ; ^ we will manage that. 

But will you agree ?’ 

^ No ; Mrs Carter would not like it.’ 

Clara shrugged her shoulders impatiently. I knew how it 
would be at Richmond. Wlienever you get with Ruth and 
Madeline and the good set, Alice, you are not worth a farthing.’ 

‘ It will be ill-natured not to do it,’ said Florence, in a more 
gentle tone ; ‘ for it will oblige us to pay more than we meant.’ 

‘ And we cannot trust you,’ added Clara ; ‘ you may tell.’ 

Alice made no answer. With regard to trusting, it was very 
doubtful whether any one had a right to insist upon her keeping 
a secret of a wrong kind. ‘ I wish you would not hinder me,’ 
she said. ‘ I must go and learn my lessons.’ 

‘ It is all Ruth’s doing,’ exclaimed Clara. ‘ She is always 
trying to get you over to her side. I hate people who are so 
over-good ; and I can tell Miss Ruth, that if she has set her 
heart upon ever being judge, she had better take care ; she 
shall nev^er be judge with my consent.’ 

‘ But at any rate, if you will not join yourself, will you help me?’ 
asked Florence. ‘ I want more money for Justine; will you lend 
it me ?’ 

Alice hesitated. ‘ I have very little left,’ she answered. 

‘ O baby ! baby ! She wants her money Yor cakes,’ said 
Clara, ironically. 

Alice felt this taunt. Her fondness for sweet things was as 
strong now as in the days of the lost bonbon. 

‘ It does not matter what I want it for,’ she answered, coolly ; 

‘ but I have only half-a-crown left, and a shilling of that I owe 
Madeline.’ 

‘ But the eighteenpence, let me have that,’ said Florence. ' 

Alice held back, and observed that she did not think she had I 

her purse down-stairs, though at the same time she foolishly i 

showed her disposition to yield, by putting her band into her 
pocket to feel for it. It was not there — she thought it might 
be in her desk — yes upon second thoughts, she remembered 
that it must be, and Alice opened the desk, still declaring that 
she did not mean to lend the money, because she did not think 
it right. Clara and Florence looked at each other and smiled. 
Alice found the purse, and stood with it in her hand, debating 
what she should do. ‘ I owe Madeline a shilling,’ she said. 

‘ Well,’ replied Florence, ‘ pay that, and you will have 
eighteenpence left.’ ■ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


245 


The word eighteenpence seemed to strike Alice disagreeably. 
She cast her eyes upon her dress, then put her hand into her 
pocket, took it out, put it in again, and at length exclaimed — 

‘ This was the dress, I am sure.’ 

‘ The dress ? What do you mean ? ’ inquired Clara and 
Florence. 

‘ The dress I put the change into — the dress I wore at Rich- 
mond. What can have become of it ? ’ 

‘ Of the dress ? ’ asked Clara, with a laugh. ‘ Why, you 
have it on.’ 

‘ The money — Madeline’s money. She gave me half-a-crown 
— I had eighteenpence change. Where can it be ? ’ 

Alice searched again, and this time, as she drew out her hand, 
she looked extremely annoyed. There was a hole in her pocket ; 
the money must have slipped through. Alice’s spirit was not, 
however, easily depressed. When she was sure of the fact of her 
loss, she turned to Florence, and said — 

‘ Then, Florence, you see it is impossible. I must give my 
money to Madeline now, to make up for the eighteenpence I 
have lost.’ 

‘ How provoking,’ said Florence. ‘ Are you quite sure it is 
not there ? ’ 

‘ Quite ; I have nothing in my pocket but a pencil and my 
handkerchief.’ 

Clara was going away. 

‘ Stay one minute,’ said Florence. ‘ Alice, just lend me the 
eighteenpence. I will repay it ; and Madeline won’t want 
it yet.’ 

‘ But I cannot : it is not mine now. Ask Madeline.’ 

‘ Ask Madeline ! Impossible ! She would find out some- 
thing directly.’ 

‘ And remember, Alice,’ said Clara, ^ you are bound to help 
in some way. You have heard part of one of the books ; it will 
be quite mean if you don’t.’ 

Alice had a dread of meanness, perhaps from being conscious 
in her own heart that she was naturally not entirely free from it. 

‘ But what shall I do,’ she asked, ‘ if Madeline wants to be 
repaid .?’ 

‘ Oh, make an excuse ; pay the shilling, and then beg her to 
wait for the eighteenpence. There are a hundred ways of getting 
out of the difficulty. Borrow of some one else, if you are very 
much put to it.’ 


246 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


‘ But don’t be frightened,’ said Florence, feeling for Alice’s 
evident perplexity. ‘ I shall be sure to have some money from 
home before the holidays.’ 

‘ Quite sure 

* Yes, why should you doubt? Please give me the money.’ 

‘ We shall have some one asking after us if we stay here any 
longer,’ said Clara. ‘ And, Alice you are bound to help, be- 
cause you read the book.’ 

Poor Alice was in no danger of forgetting that fact. It was a 
weight upon her conscience already. She gave the money, and 
Florence and Clara, again reminding her not to mention what 
she had done, left her. 

The holidays were now drawing near. After Mrs Carter’s 
birthday, it was understood that all were to occupy themselves 
diligently in bringing the work of the half-year to a conclusion. 
The good conduct marks were reckoned frequently ; and the 
elder girls were very industrious in finishing their drawings, and 
learning difficult pieces of music perfectly. Busy as the school 
always was, it was a great deal more busy when the holidays 
approached. This season was Anna Grant’s particular delight. 
She was continually in a bustle. Nothing escaped her vigilance. 
She seemed to be everywhere at once, managing her own aifairs 
cleverly, and suggesting what should be done with every other 
person’s. Mary Vernon withdrew more and more from the 
exercise of her office of judge. It was Mrs Carter’s idea. She 
thought that Mary might by this means be enabled to see how 
affairs were likely to be managed when she was away, and might 
be able to give Anna some useful hints. Besides, Mary was 
preparing for confirmation and her first Communion, and Mrs 
Carter did not wish her to be burdened with more business than 
was absolutely necessary. 

It was curious to watch Ruth’s manner at this time. She 
appeared to follow wherever Anna Grant led, for the purpose 
of smoothing whatever Anna had ruffled. She never put her- 
self forward. She gave her opinion rather less decidedly than 
before ; her position was that of a peace-maker, and it was one 
which gained her many friends. Ruth was not hypocritical in 
this. She did really like to do kind things, and she disap- 
proved of Anna’s domineering manner ; but, besides, she had 
a view to her own interests — a wish to obtain praise. As to 
being chosen judge, Ruth was fully aware that such a thing was 
not likely to be yet. She only looked to it by and by. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


247 


Madeline did not think much about the money she had lent 
Alice. It was a common thing for money to be borrowed, and 
every now and then there were grand settlement days ; but 
Madeline was very careless in money matters — carelessness, 
indeed, was her fault in everything. She had an account book, 
but it was never regularly kept, and Ruth often scolded her 
for it. Once or twice she said, ‘ Alice, you owe me some 
money, ^ and Alice would answer, ‘Yes;’ and there the sub- 
ject ended, much to the relief of Alice ; for Florence Trevelyan 
still delayed the repayment of her debt. She was always 
expecting money from home, but unfortunately the money 
never came. 

What arrangements had been made with Justine about the 
books, Alice did not exactly know. Nothing was told her, but 
she saw whispering and meaning looks pass between Clara and 
Justine ; and at night there was generally some mysterious 
volume read silently by one of the party in her bedroom, the 
title of which she was not allowed to see. She had reason to 
believe that Justine had paid a subscription to a library, and 
engaged to bring the books as they were wanted. 

Alice was not at all happy in thinking this — her conscience 
was often seriously disturbed as to whether she ought not to 
mention the subject to Mrs Carter ; but she could not endure 
to repeat tales. She had read part of one book, she had lent 
money to procure others — it seemed mean to take part in a 
pleasure, and then to betray her companion. What could she 
do ? That first fault, the idling away of a half hour on a Sun- 
day afternoon, reading a wrong book, how much uneasiness it 
was causing her ! 

‘ The letters are very late,’ said Harriet Trevelyan, one 
morning, as they were all preparing their lesson books before 
school began. ‘ Florence and I want to hear whether we may 
have our new bonnets.’ 

‘ And I want to know whether papa will come and fetch me 
home,’ said Janet. 

‘And 1 want to hear about my little new dog,’ cried Jessie 
O’Neile, determined not to be outdone in wishes. ‘And what 
do you want to hear about, Ruth.?’ 

‘ Oh ! a great many things,’ replied Ruth, ‘ more than I can 
remember just now ; I am too busy.’ 

‘And yoa? and you.?’ continued Jessie, and she ran from 
one to the other, making every one answer something to her 


248 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


questions. At last she went up to Anna Grant. Unlike her 
usual custom, Anna was sitting quite silent. ‘ What do you 
want, Anna.?^ said Jessie. 

‘ Nothing, dear, nothing ; run away, will you.’ 

‘ Oh ! but you must say something.’ 

‘No, Jessie; don’t be troublesome.’ Anna’s voice was not 
so much hasty as grave. 

Ruth called Jessie away, and asked Madeline if she knew 
what was the matter with Anna. 

‘ The matter ! No ; is there anything the matter?’ 

Florence Trevelyan was standing near, and hearing the ques- 
tion, she said, ‘ I can tell you ; Anna is anxious.’ 

‘ Oh ! yes, I remember,’ said Ruth. ‘ She heard of her 
papa being ill yesterday ; but I did not think it was anything 
serious.’ 

‘ Mrs Carter was talking to her this morning ; I don’t know 
what about,’ observed Florence. ‘ I suppose it was about that, 
but I never asked. How I wish the letters would come ! I do 
long to know whether we may have the bonnets.’ 

The postman’s knock was heard. Harriet and Florence 
rushed to the door. Anna rose quickly, and then sat down 
again. ‘ Poor Anna !’ said Ruth, compassionately, ‘ I am 
afraid it must be something of consequence. I suppose if any- 
thing were to happen to her papa, she would leave school.’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Madeline, ‘ and how sorry she would be ! I 
mean, besides its being dreadful for her papa to die. I wish 
we could help her.’ 

‘ We cannot,’ answered Ruth. ‘ Dawson will be here in a 
moment to tell us whom the letters are for.’ 

‘ I wish I might go and ask for her at once,’ said Madeline. 

‘ No, no, Maddy ; indeed you must not ; it is against the 
rules. She will be sure, I should think, to leave school, if any- 
thing happens to her papa. I remember some one saying so 
one day.’ 

‘ So do I. When she is gone, what a little set we shall be !’ 

‘ Harriet and Florence are great ones,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; but they never seem anything; they are so silly. Ruth, 
you will be quite like the eldest.’ ^ 

‘ Oh no ! ’ exclaimed Ruth, ‘ there will be — ^let me see — 
three at least older than I am.’ 

‘ But they are not so high in the school. Ruth, you would be 
judge.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


249 


Ruth made no reply. 

‘ Is it very unkind to think of such things, I wonder.?’ said 
Madeline. ‘ I am very sorry for Anna.’ 

So am I. I wonder Dawson does not come.’ 

Anna’s patience was exhausted. She went to the door and 
stood there ; and when Dawson appeared and gave the names 
of those who had letters, Anna was the first to go. Madeline 
still remained by Ruth, thinking and wondering ; but Ruth took 
little notice of her. She bent over her copy-book, and began 
to write an exercise ; yet every now and then, when the door 
opened, she raised her eyes and looked round quickly. 

Several who had left the room returned. Anna Grant was 
not amongst the number. Mrs Carter, it was said, had given 
her a letter, and sent her to her own chamber to read it. Further 
inquiries were put a stop to by the commencement of school. 
Ruth’s thoughts on that morning were not betrayed by words ; 
but they must have been engrossing, for she said her lessons 
imperfectly, and was twice reproved for not answering when 
spoken to. Madeline was reproved also; but it was for whisper- 
ing to her nearest neighbour in the reading class, that she was 
afraid something very bad must be the matter about Anna, be- 
cause she had not been in school since the letter came. During 
the whole of school-time there was a quiet bustle in the house. 
Mary Vernon came in and out, and searched in Anna’s desk, 
and carried off all that she could find belonging to her ; but no 
one ventured to ask questions, under the fear of a forfeit. When 
the lessons were over, all gave way to the expression of their 
curiosity. Janet had heard a strange gentleman’s voice; Fanny 
Wilson fancied that Dawson had been told to order a carriage ; 
every one had something to say, except Ruth ; she sat silent. 
Luncheon was brought in ; luncheon, instead of dinner. There 
was no reason given for the change ; but they were ordered to 
keep in the school-room, and the pianos were stopped. Pre- 
sently a further piece of information was obtained from Dawson. 
A strange gentleman was fti the dravang-room, and Miss Grant 
was packing up her things, and crying veiy much. 

‘ Ruth,’ said Madeline, when she heard this, ‘ I am sure it 
must be true what we thought. Anna’s papa must be very ill, 
and she must be going away.’ 

‘ Yes, probably.’ This was all that Ruth would say, and 
Madeline went to tell her thoughts to others. 

'For some time all talked of Anna, and really felt for her ; 


250 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


Alice amongst the number. But Alice had not a mind entirely 
free for any other person’s anxieties : she was fretted for herself. 
Florence Trevelyan had, as she expected, received a letter from 
home, but Alice could not discover what was said in it about 
money. She inquired, and was told that Mrs Trevelyan only 
wrote an order as to the trimming of the new bonnets. The reply 
was given hastily, as if the question was one of no consequence 
whatever ; and Florence went on talking about Anna, and the 
probability of her leaving school, without giving one thought 
to Alice’s look of annoyance. 

‘ Alice, I want you. Come here, will you,’ cried Clara Man- 
ners, as Alice left the luncheon table, grave and downcast. 

‘ Just tell me whether you really asked for the money, 
Florence ? ’ repeated Alice ; but Florence was busying herself 
with helping bread and butter, and appeared not to have heard 
the question. 

‘ How can you be so silly and unkind, Alice ? ’ said Clara, 
when Alice went to her. ‘ You choose such very awkward 
moments. Florence can’t answer you about the money when 
there are so many near. If you want to know, I can tell you. 
Her mamma will not send her any ; she has been extravagant.’ 

‘ But Clara ’ — and Alice reddened with anger — ‘ she must have 
some money ; she must pay me. I owe it to Madeline.’ 

‘ Well ! well ! don’t fuss about it. It will be managed some 
way. All I beg is, that you will keep quiet.’ 

‘ But has Florence used my money ? has she given it to 
Justine yet ? ’ 

‘ Those who ask, won’t hear; and those who don’t ask, don’t 
care to know,’ replied Clara, ironically. 

‘ But indeed it is so unjust, so unfair. I never heard any- 
thing like it,’ remonstrated Alice. ‘ I will ask Ruth ; I will 
tell ’ 

‘ Hush ! hush ! gently — be quiet ! ’ continued Clara, laughing. 
‘ I only meant to tease you. You shall have your money by 
and by; but you must be contented to wait. No one means 
to cheat you of your eighteenpence.’ 

Cheat ! ’ exclaimed Alice, in a loud voice ; ‘ I should think 
not.’ 

‘No, of course, no one means to cheat you,’ continued Clara, 
in the same indifferent manner. ‘ You shall have it some day 
or other.’ 

The tone provoked Alice beyond endurance. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


251 


^ I will not wait for some day or other. I will have it now/ 
she said. ‘ If it is not given me, I will tell Mrs Carter all 
about it.^ 

* And tell Mrs Carter that you read a story-book in the 
dressing-room on a Sunday afternoon,^ replied Clara, still 
answering with perfect coolness. ‘ Where will be your chance 
of the good-conduct prize then, Alice ? You want how many 
tickets to make up the number ? ^ 

‘ Eight,’ said Alice. 

* And you are nearly sure of them now. Tell, and you will 
forfeit four. Good-bye.’ 

Clara laughed, left her seat, and went to the other end of the 
room. Alice stood with the luncheon in her hand upon the 
verge of a burst of passion. All her companions were talking 
and amusing themseh es, except Ruth. Alice’s impulse was to 
go at once and open her heart to her. She advanced a step 
and then paused. Ruth was not quite the person to whom she 
would have chosen to confess a fault. Ruth noticed her ap- 
proach, and asked if she would fetch some luncheon for her, as 
she was very busy. ^Mice did as she was requested, and putting 
the plate of bread and butter and the glass of water upon the 
top of the desk, remained by Ruth quite silent. Clara saw her. 
Under pretence of wishing for some more luncheon, she came 
up and took away the plate, and, as she passed Alice, said in 
a very low tone — 

‘ Mind, Alice ! if you tell, you have no chance of the prize.’ 

* Thank you ; that is my own concern,’ said Alice, haughtily, 
aloud. 

^ What is the matter, Alice ? ’ asked Ruth, as she looked up 
with a smile. ‘ What are you and Clara at war about ? ’ 

‘ Nothing. We are not at war ; only she irritates me so that 
I can’t bear it.’ 

* Does she ? Never mind ; she teases every one.’ 

‘ She does more than tease me,’ exclaimed Alice ; ‘ she makes 
me so angry I can scarcely bear myself, or her either ; and 
I won’t bear it ; I won’t submit any longer. I will tell Mrs 
Carter, and Miss Barnard, and Lady Catharine ; I will tell 
every one, that I will.’ 

‘ But what will you tell them ? What has she done ? ’ 

The temptation to speak out was strong ; but Alice thought 
of the good-conduct prize, and was afraid of betraying herself. 

‘ Oh ! everything ; she is provoking in everything.’ 


252 LANETON PARSONAGE. 

Ruth laid down her pen, and said, while she looked steadily 
in Alice’s face — 

* Alice, if you dislike Clara so much, why are you always 
with her ? ’ 

* I am not with her ; I try to keep away from her — I hate 
her.’ 

Ruth looked shocked. 

‘ Yes,’ continued Alice, quickly, ‘ I do hate her ; and I am 
right. She does a great many more wrong things than Mrs 
Carter or any one guesses ; and I know it will be found out, 
and we shall all get punished together. I would give all the 
world to be away from her.’ 

‘ But,’ said Ruth, in surprise, ‘ if there is anything wrong, 
surely, Alice, you ought to tell Mrs Carter.’ 

‘ No, I ought not ; that is, I can’t. Ruth, you must not ask 
me about it.’ 

‘ You had better tell — indeed, you had better, Alice,’ said 
Ruth. 

‘ I cannot, at least, not to-day. Don’t speak so loudly, 
Ruth.’ 

Ruth seemed perplexed and pained. ‘No one can guess 
what you mean, Alice,’ she said ; ‘ but you will do very wrong 
if you do not tell. If I were in your place, I should directly.’ 

‘ Hush ! hush ! Ruth, pray take care. I would not have 
Clara hear for the world. Some day or other perhaps I may.’ 

Alice grew frightened at what she had said, and was wishing 
if possible to make some excuse and change the conversation, 
when the current of her ideas was altered by the entrance of 
Miss Barnard. Her manner was not stiff as usual ; she seemed 
much distressed and hurried, and it was with some hesitation 
that, after ordering silence, she informed all who were present 
that one of their companions had met with a severe affliction. 
Anna Grant’s father was dying. Her brother was come for 
her, and she was to return home immediately. ‘ As there is 
no probability of her return,’ continued Miss Barnard, ‘ she 
wishes to see you all for the last time. She will be here 
directly. The carriage is ready to take her away.’ 

‘ Poor Anna ! how very sorry I am !’ exclaimed Madeline. 

Ruth turned pale ; there seemed a struggle in her mind. 
After a moment’s pause, she said, ‘Yes, I am very sorry.’ 

‘ So sudden as it is,’ continued Madeline, ‘ it must be very 
dreadful for her.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


253 


Instead of conversing, Ruth fixed her eye upon the door. 

‘ Hark ! she is coming,’ said Madeline. 

Ruth rose, and went forward a few steps. 

An unsteady hand was laid upon the lock, then the handle 
was turned firmly, and Anna and Mary Vernon came in to- 
gether. Anna was trembling violently ; she did not utter a 
single word. 

Ruth was the first to kiss her, to say ‘ Good-bye ; ’ and only 
good-bye. Something else seemed upon her lips, but it was 
not spoken. 

Madeline threw her arms round her neck, and whispered : 
^ Perhaps he will get well ; you will be sure and come back 
again.’ 

Ruth heard the whisper, and as if her conscience reproached 
her for an omission, she went back again and added : ‘ Dear 
Anna, it may not be as bad as you expect.’ Anna’s tears only 
fell the faster for this attempt at comfort, and hurrying over the 
partings, she broke away from her companions, and hastened to 
the carriage. 

She was gone. There was the vacant place, the unoccupied 
desk, the blank of absence. She had been their playfellow, the 
sharer of their studies, their interests, their hopes and fears. 
She had been as their sister ; nurtured under one roof, guarded 
by one eye. She was separated from them, perhaps, on earth 
for ever. Those who had thought and spoken the most hardly 
of Anna Grant were kind and pitying now. 

It was towards the evening. The whole party had just re- 
turned from a walk. Ruth and Madeline were together in the 
dressing-room. Madeline was speaking of Anna ; her trials, 
her character, the difference her departure would make in the 
school ; and Ruth was listening to all her sister said, but mak- 
ing few observations of her own. Her quiet abstracted manner 
was very marked. 

* Ruth,’ said Madeline at length, Mo you care to talk to me ? 
You seem as if you were thinking of something else.’ 

‘ Yes, indeed, Maddy ; how can you fancy I do not 1 What 
was it you heard Clara and Florence say?’ 

‘ Nothing more than I told you. They both thought you as 
clever as Anna, and a great deal more agreeable. And you 
are so, Ruth ; every one thinks it. How pleased papa and 
mamma will be when you are judge ! ’ 

‘ Madeline,’ said Ruth, gravely, ‘ you should not reckon upon 
any such thing as certain.’ 


2 54 LANETON PARSONAGE. 

*■ I do not reckon upon it as certain ; I only say what others 
say/ 

‘ Well ! it is better not to talk about it/ said Ruth. She sat 
down upon a trunk, and began to fold up her walking dress. 
Madeline looked as if she did not quite understand her, and 
after remaining a few moments longer, left her. 

Then Ruth did not talk, but she thought. She indulged a 
dream of ambition. She made herself the first ; and for the time 
she was quite happy. The object of her wishes appeared very 
near. There was no one — she felt there was no one — to com- 
pete with her. To attain such a position while yet so young 
made it only the more valuable. And Ruth did not think only 
of her parent’s gratification. She placed herself in imagination 
before strangers ; she heard herself praised as Mary Vernon 
was praised ; admired, respected, by Mrs Carter and her friends, 
as well as by her schoolfellows. Many things which she im- 
agined were impossible ; some, if they had been stated plainly 
in words, might have appeared ridiculous ; but Ruth was think- 
ing by herself, and had no one to warn her. Only the eye of 
God was upon her, and His Word had taught her that it is a 
dangerous, a sinful state of mind, ‘ to love the praise of men 
more than the praise of God.’ 

How long Ruth might have remained occupied with her own 
thoughts is uncertain. She was disturbed by the sound of an 
angry voice — Jessie O’Neile’s ; another was heard at intervals, 
provokingly cool — it was Clara’s. 

‘ Now, little one, be quiet ; dry your eyes and be good.’ 

Then came a fresh burst of sobbing, and again, but with 
greater irritation of tone, the half command, half entreaty, ‘ not 
to be so naughty.’ 

Ruth ran into the school-room to see what was amiss. 

‘ Clara won’t let me look for what I have lost, she won’t let 
me see ; she has my pencil ; I lent it to her,’ exclaimed Jessie, 
instantly appealing to Ruth as her unfailing champion. 

‘ I never allow any one to look in my desk but myself,’ said 
Clara, keeping her hand firmly on the lid. ‘ Little children have 
no business to search in desks which don’t belong to them.’ 

‘ But she has my pencil ; it is in there, and I want it ; I will 
have it,’ continued Jessie. 

‘ Hush ! hush ! Jessie ! ’ interposed Ruth ; ‘ this is very 
naughty ; let me speak to Clara, and you sit down. If you 
have the pencil, Clara, do give it up.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


255 

^ But I have not. I don^t know anything about it. I don’t 
even know what it is like.’ 

* But I do/ said Ruth ; ‘ will you let me look instead ?’ 

‘ No, I thank you ; I will trouble you not to interfere, Ruth;’ 
and Clara still kept her hold upon the desk. 

Jessie, who had remained by Ruth, burst forth into another 
fit of passion which it was in vain to attempt to pacify ; and 
angry with the little girl’s temper, whilst vexed at the provo- 
cation she had received, Ruth was hesitating how to act, when 
Mrs Carter came into the room unexpectedly. Ruth was 
thinking of Jessie, not of Clara. She did not see the change 
in Clara’s manner ; the haste with which she opened her own 
desk, pulled out a book, and thrust it into Florence Trevelyan’s ; 
she only heard the next moment the permission to come and 
search, if she liked it ; though it was certain that Jessie’s pencil 
was not there. This was ti*ue ; but the information came too 
late to be any comfort or help to Jessie, who being discovered 
in a fit of passion, was receiving a very severe reproof in conse- 
quence. Ruth really felt for the child as she stood trembling 
by Mrs Carter’s side. 

Ruth herself had never since she first came to school received 
such a reprimand upon any subject. Yet Mrs Carter was very 
gentle in all she said. She spoke indeed strongly of the sin, the 
danger of such a temper ; but it was with a quiet earnestness 
which insensibly stilled the child’s excited feelings. Jessie was 
sent to her room ; and Mrs Carter, calling Ruth aside, inquired 
into the history of the quarrel. 

‘ You are Jessie’s true friend, Ruth,’ she said, ‘ and I trust to 
you more than to any one to help her in overcoming this terrible 
temper.’ 

Ruth smiled ; and allowed that Jessie was sadly passionate. 
In this instance she did not exactly know what had made her 
angry, but she believed it was a trifle. Jessie wished to search 
in Clara’s desk, and Clara did not like it. 

^ Then there is no fault, I hope, to be found with Clara,’ said 
Mrs Carter. ‘ That is a relief to my mind. I cannot endure 
the idea of tyranny.’ 

Ruth was not certain that there had not been some tyranny 
exercised, at least in manner, but she could bring neither charge 
nor proof. And Mrs Carter went on speaking about Jessie. 

‘ After having been at school more than a year, there ought,' 
she said, ‘ to be an improvement.’ 


256 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


* Jessie is better at times/ said Ruth, in a timid voice. 

‘ Yes, at times ; not as often as I wish, and have expected.' 

‘ It must be very difficult to conquer such a violent temper,' 
said Ruth ; and then, after a slight hesitation, she added, 

‘ Mamma says she does not know what she should do if Made- 
line and I had violent tempers.’ 

Something in the tone of this speech appeared to strike Mrs 
Carter disagreeably. Her eye rested steadily upon Ruth, as 
she said — 

‘ Ruth, my dear, we must remember one thing. We are apt 
to speak of passion as if it were the only kind of bad temper, 
except, perhaps, sulkiness ; and we think that some persons 
have no evil temper. I do not believe this is so.’ 

‘ But passionate persons must be worse than others,’ observed 
Ruth, whilst a slight blush tinged her cheek. 

‘ They are worse in the sight of their fellow-creatures,’ re- 
plied Mrs Carter ; ‘ but there may be others quite as bad in the 
eye of God. The truth is, I believe that all persons have some 
evil temper. Very quiet and generally amiable people, as well 
as others. Perhaps there is some one point on which they will 
not bear opposition ; or when they are injured, they retain the 
remembrance a long time ; or they are positive and determined, 
though in a gentle way. Now, God sees the temptation of each 
individual ; and the person who indulges that secret sin is as 
guilty in His sight as one who offends openly. Does this seem 
hard to you ?’ 

Ruth could scarcely bring herself to allow that it did. She 
was afraid of expressing her opinion, 

‘ I think the Bible teaches us something of this kind,’ con- 
tinued Mrs Carter. ‘ You know very well that it warns us 
against angry words, as being the beginning of the sin of mur- 
der ; but we are not told that angry words were the cause of 
the first murder. Rather, we have reason to believe that it was 
a secret evil temper — envy — because the offering of Abel was 
accepted before that of Cain. I speak to you in this way, my 
dear Ruth,’ continued Mrs Carter, ‘ because you are by nature 
so docile and mild, that such a temper is more likely to be your 
snare than passion, or fretfulness, or sulkiness, I do not mean 
to say that I have ever seen any traces of it ; quite the contrary, 
but it may be in your heart though you do not perceive it.’ 

Ruth bent her eyes upon the ground, and looked very un- 
comfortable. 


JLANETON PARSONAGE, 


257 

Mrs Carter watched the expression of her face, and presently- 
added — 

‘ Passionate persons cannot help knowing their fault ; and 
though it requires a great struggle, great self-command, to 
overcome it ; yet if they have high religious principles, they are 
nearly certain of success. Quiet, mild persons may go on for 
years without knowing their danger till the trial comes, and 
they fall under it. Self-command is necessary for the one 
temper ; self-examination for the other.’ 

Ruth’s countenance was so downcast when Mrs Carter said 
this, that it was evident she took it as a reproof. 

It seemed wrong that she should be left with this idea, when 
she had done nothing to merit censure ; and, as Mrs Carter 
was going away, she said — 

‘ Remember, Ruth, my dear, I do not in the least mean to 
imply that the temper I have spoken of is yours. I have no 
reason to distrust you in any way ; and now that poor Anna is 
gone, you will be more my right hand than ever.’ Ruth re- 
membered the last words ; she forgot the former ones. 

Ruth followed Mrs Carter to the parlour. It was tea-time, 
and when the tea was over the party dispersed into little groups 
about the room ; some talking, some trying to work by the 
fading light ; one or two, who could not make up their minds 
to bear the loneliness of the school-room in the evening, gather- 
ing round the window, trying to learn their lessons for the next 
day ; while Janet Harding practised her last new piece, strum- 
ming the notes with a heavy hand in bold defiance of time and 
taste. Ruth sat thinking for some little time by herself. She 
held a book in her hand, but it was merely an excuse for occu- 
pation. Presently she laid it down, and going up to Alice, who 
was talking to Harriet Trevelyan, she said — 

‘ Alice, I wish very much to speak to you ; can you come to 
me for a minute ?’ 

Alice started at being thus suddenly addressed, and appeared 
unwilling to comply. 

‘ She was engaged,’ she said ; ‘ Harriet was amusing her with 
a droll story ; would not by and by do just as well ? ’ 

‘ No, not just as well. Really, I wish it, if you can come. 
Please do, Alice,’ added Ruth, in her most persuasive manner. 

Alice begged Harriet to wait till she returned, and went aside 
with Ruth. 

< It is something particular that I wish to say, Alice,’ began 

R 


358 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Ruth ; * very particular, indeed ; about what you mentioned 
this morning. I have been thinking a great deal of it. If 
there is anything wrong going on, indeed you ought to stop it ; 
or if you cannot do that, you should name it.^ 

‘ But Ruth,’ said Alice, taken quite by surprise by this unex- 
pected appeal ; ^ you have such a memory. What did I say ? 
I forget. How came you to think of it again ? ’ 

‘ I could not help thinking of it,’ answered Ruth. ‘ It has 
been upon my mind all day. It has something to do with 
Clara, I am nearly sure. O Alice ! if you would only break 
off from her entirely ! ’ 

Alice heaved a deep sigh. 

‘ She will bring you into dreadful mischief by and by,’ con- 
tinued Ruth ; ‘ and she is so very bold and careless ; and Lady 
Catharine would be so vexed if she were to know it. But I don’t 
think, Alice, you ever think of Lady Catharine ; you do just 
what Clara tells you.’ 

‘ Ruth, you do not know,’ exclaimed Alice. ‘ You are quite 
wrong. I do think of Lady Catharine very much indeed ; and 
I do not do what Clara tells me. I have not done so now. I 
cannot imagine why you should make this sudden fuss. It 
must be because they all say you are to be judge now that Anna 
is gone.’ 

‘ It has notliing to do'with being judge,’ answered Ruth, with 
some constraint in her tone ; ‘ but you are acting wrongly, and I 
know I ought to tell you of it.’ 

‘ I do not wish to be told, thank you,’ replied Alice, proudly. 
‘ I can manage my own concerns. Perhaps you will be kind 
enough to wait till you are judge before you interfere.’ 

‘ Alice, I have no wish to interfere ; whether I am judge or 
not ; but one thing is certain, that unless you leave off being 
with Clara and her set, you will never please Mrs Carter.’ 

‘ Or you,’ added Alice ; ‘ you had better put yourself in.’ 

Ruth would make no answer to this retort ; but again she 
urged her request, and with such eagerness that she did not 
perceive the piano had stopped, until she was heard in a loud 
tone to say — 

‘ Alice, you know that to allow wrong things to go on with- 
out stopping them, is almost as bad as doing them yourself.’ 

Before Alice could reply, Clara Manners came up to her. 
Her manner was evidently forced as she said, whilst trying to 
laugh — 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


259 

‘ What is that you are preaching about, Ruth ? You have no 
idea of converting Alice, have you ? ’ 

‘ I have an idea of making her do what is right,’ replied 
Ruth ; ‘ and that she can never do whilst she conceals things. 
And, Clara, if I thought it would be any use, I would speak to 
you also.’ 

‘ Speak, if you please,’ answered Clara ; ‘ I am quite willing 
to listen.’ 

‘ You will listen, I daresay,’ continued Ruth ; ‘ but you will 
turn away and make a joke of it the next minute.’ 

‘ Perhaps I may,’ replied Clara ; ‘ yet I should be glad to heal 
what you have to say.’ 

The tone in which this was uttered betrayed a little anxiety ; 
and, as Ruth did not immediately answer, Clara again begged 
that she should be told at once what it was to which Ruth re- 
ferred when she alluded to concealment. 

‘ You must ask Alice,’ answered Ruth ; * she knows. She 
says “ that something wrong is going on.” ’ 

‘ I did not say that, Clara,’ interrupted Alice, eagerly. Ruth’s 
eyes sparkled with intelligence ; and laying her hand upon 
Alice’s shoulder, she said — 

‘ Then Clara has something to do with it. I was sure it was 
so. Alice, why will you be led by her ? ’ 

‘ Because she has too much spirit to be put into leading- 
strings by you,’ exclaimed Clara. ‘ Alice is not a baby, like 
Jessie O’Neile ; she will not be ordered and scolded by a child. 
Alice, come Avith me, and we will leave Ruth to herself.’ She 
put her arm around Alice to draw her away, but Alice stood 
still. 

‘ Clara,’ said Ruth, ‘ you are tempting Alice to do wrong. 
Remember, if I suspect that you are carrying on what Mrs 
Carter disapproves, I must and will discover and mention it. 

‘ Hush ! pray be quiet. Miss Barnard is coming,’ said Alice. 
Clara paused as she was moving away. She placed herself 
opposite to Ruth. Her countenance expressed intense indig- 
nation, and, in a low whisper, she said — 

‘ And you, Ruth, remember, since you choose to interfere with 
my concerns, I have a full right to interfere with yours. Half 
the school are my friends, and I will take care you shall never 
be judge.’ 

‘ Ring the bell for candles,’ cried Miss Barnard, in a cheerful 
voice. ‘ Girls, get your work. Where is the book we are 


z6o 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


reading? Hush ! such a noise ! Fanny, your voice is louder 
than all/ 

It was a cheerful scene that evening in Mrs Carter’s parlour ; 
young, happy, innocent faces were there ; innocent reading ; in- 
nocent occupations. Alas ! that in this world of sin evil should 
lurk under the fairest forms. 

Nearly at the head of the table sat Ruth ; she was more silent 
than the rest — more grave. Now and then a cloud gathered 
upon her countenance ; her brow was knit with thought. What 
could be passing in her mind ? The trial of Ruth’s temper was 
come, but she did not know it. 

When she meditated the best means of discovering Clara’s 
secret, she thought that her wish was to please Mrs Carter. 
There was a feeling much deeper — revenge. Clara had said 
that Ruth should never be judge — and Ruth from /hat moment 
was her enemy. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


ANY engrossing thoughts occupied Ruth’s mind when she 



i V 1 laid her head upon her pillow, and in the quietness of 
night reviewed all that had passed in the day. 

She seemed to have made a sudden start, to have grown 
older. Anna’s departure had made an astonishing difference to 
her, much greater than she could have foreseen. It had raised 
her position in the school ; it had placed her almost where she 
most wished to be. In the opinion of her companions she saw 
that she was no longer a child. And Anna’s departure had 
made a further difference to Ruth : it had brought out the strong 
feelings which lurked under her’ calm manner — the eagerness, 
determination, pride, which had till now been guessed at only. 
As Ruth meditated upon Clara’s threat, she became very angry 
at the idea of being thwarted in her favourite wish. The threat 
itself might be an idle one, probably it was : Clara did not stand 
high enough in the school to have much real influence, however 
she might boast ; but the threat had been -made, and that in 
Ruth’s eyes was sufficient. Something must be thought of at 
once to expose Clara’s conduct, and prevent her from doing 
mischief. And what should this be ? How would it be best to 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


261 


act ? Would it be advisable to go at once to Mrs Carter ? But 
she had no actual charge to bring forward, and the system of 
complaining and suspecting was one which Mrs Carter entirely 
discouraged. Was it probable that Alice would be induced to 
confess more ? Alice was fickle as the winds. It entirely de- 
pended upon her mood the next morning whether she would be 
Clara’s friend or the contrary. Could general inquiries be made ? 
But if Ruth was suspected of interfering and prying into secrets, 
she was not likely to be chosen judge. The way was not at all 
clear, and at length Ruth fell into a reverie about Clara and 
Anna, and her home, and Lady Catharine, and her Italian 
master, which by degrees became perfect unconsciousness, and 
she was asleep. 

Our last thoughts at night are not without their consequences. 
As we lie down, so do we wake up again. When we have closed 
our eyes after humble, earnest prayer; when the faint recollec- 
tions and ideas which precede sleep have been blended with 
feelings of gratitude to our Almighty F ather ; when we have 
commended our spirits to His care, and prayed that if we die 
before we wake, we may be safe in His keeping ; then as we 
re-open our eyes to the light of a new morning, so do we re-open 
them also to the consciousness of the presence, and the protec- 
tion, and the favour of God. It seems, indeed, as if the last 
thoughts before sleep were impressed upon us with peculiar 
■ power. Perhaps there are few who in childhood have set them- 
selves diligently to some difficult lesson, who have not accus- 
tomed themselves to repeat their tasks the very last thing, as it 
is called. They have been told that it will help them, and it 
most frequently does. That which was imperfectly remembered 
at night becomes, we know not how, perfect in the morning. 
Learning is our duty, and the habits which assist us in this duty 
are good. But we all, young and old, rich and poor, high born 
and lowly, have a much harder task, a much more difficult 
duty. 

God calls upon us to conquer our evil tempers ; to learn to 
love Him ; to prepare ourselves for Eternity. Is it a strange 
thing to ask, that we should take the same pains to please Him, 
that we do to please a fellow- creature ? that we should be as 
anxious for the glorious crown of heaven, as for the little prize 
which may be the reward of our endeavours here ? If it is not, 
let us remember that the thoughts with which we sink to sleep 
are the thoughts with which we shall probably awake, and let 


262 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


them be thoughts of God. The short prayer, the psalm, the 
simple verse of a hymn, which are the last words on our lips, 
and contain the last idea allowed to rest upon our minds, will 
remain with us fixed, stamped, as it were, upon our memories, 
to check us in the hour of temptation, and aid us on our path 
to heaven. 

Madeline Clifford went to sleep, almost whilst repeating the 
words of the hymn which had been her nightly prayer since the 
first day when she could put together a few connected words. 
And the hymn had not been a form ; it had been said seriously, 
with a feeling of trust, of childlike faith. When the morning 
bell disturbed her dreams, she rose with a sense of energy and 
duty to prepare for the business of the day. Ruth rose to pre- 
pare for business also. She was never late ; this day she was 
particularly early ; dressed before any one else. This was 
noticed, but no one knew the reason why it should be so. 
Ruth’s prayers had been hurried over, but that was a secret 
between herself and the Great God before whom she knelt. 

‘ We shall hear from home to-day, I suppose, Ruth,’ said 
Madeline to her sister, as the post time drew near. ‘ Papa will 
fix the day for coming for us. Let me see — Thursday week — 
that will be — how many days ? * 

‘Ten,’ replied Ruth, with rather an absent air. 

‘ Ten .? yes, ten exactly. How I do long for it ! Just fancy, 
Ruth, the railroad, and the Cottington coach, and dear mamma 
waiting for us at the bottom of the village. Don’t you think 
she will come to meet us ? she said she would.’ 

‘Yes, I daresay,’ was Ruth’s reply with the same manner, as 
if she was thinking of something else. Ruth was looking at 
Clara and Florence Trevelyan. They were standing together 
talking. Florence held a book in her hand ; a dirty volume 
with a red mark at the back. Ruth drew nearer, and began to 
search for a music book on the piano. Clara’s back was to- 
wards her, and she was not seen. She heard Clara say, ‘ She 
will be here to-day, or to-morrow, and then she will bring the 
third volume. If you have not finished this, you must to-night.’ 

Florence nodded assent, and, concealing the book under a 
parcel which she held in her hand, asked if anything was wanted 
from the bedrooms, as Mrs Carter had given her permission to 
go up-stairs to put away her work — one or two things were 
named, and then Florence went away ; and almost immediately 
afterwards, the well-known knock announced the arrival of the 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


263 


postman. Perhaps there was scarcely one amongst the many 
who were assembled that had not some misgiving about letters 
on that morning ; a little fear as to the news which might be 
received. We never understand fully what is meant by the 
‘ change and chances of this mortal life/ until we have either 
received ourselves, or seen others receive, some unexpected 
startling intelligence. The first time in our lives that this 
happens seems to make known to us a new truth, something 
which we had heard before, without at all comprehending it. 
Nothing was now said about hopes, and fears, and wishes for 
letters ; all were silent ; and the few who were summoned to 
the study, went out and returned again, almost without an 
observation being made. Ruth was amongst the number. 
Madeline waited for her impatiently. 

‘ A letter from mamma ! how delightful ! Ruth, give it me, 
do. Let me look at the direction.^ 

‘ It is a very long letter,’ said Ruth. She did not appear as 
eager to open her letter as usual, and Madeline caught it from her. 

‘ Ruth, dear, you are so slow. Let me see ; perhaps there 
is something for Alice in it.’ 

The letter was addressed to ‘ Miss Clifford,’ only ; and Ruth 
began to read, Madeline seated on the corner of her chair, 
peeping over her shoulder, to be quite sure that it was not 
meant for her. 

‘ My very dear children,’ were the first words : then the 
letter was for them both, and Madeline had a full right to go 
on reading. The first part certainly was witten for both. It 
told them all the Laneton news ; about their grandmamma, 
the school, and the cottages, old Roger’s grand- children, 
Benson’s sister, the new woman at the Manor Lodge — the 
alteration in the flower beds. Then followed a part which 
seemed particularly intended for Ruth, as it was in answer to a 
letter of hers received a few days previously. 

‘ I am looking forward most anxiously to next week, counting 
the days till I can see my darlings again. I fancy you both 
standing before me, grown and improved in appearance, and, I 
may also hope, in really important points. But, my dearest 
Ruth, your last note has given me some anxious thoughts ; 
very far, I am sure, from your wish. You tell me that when 
Mary Vernon is gone, there will be an idle set left, and that 
one or two will be very bad examples to the rest. I am afraid 
this may be true, not only because you say it, but because I 


264 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


know liow great a difference the absence or presence of one 
person will make in a school. But, my dear child, I should be 
glad to know more particularly what you mean by an idle set. 
I long to hear more details from yourself. Sometimes I am 
frightened for you, and think that you and Madeline may be 
tempted to join it. It would grieve me very much to find you 
return home altered, grown careless, or to see that you had not 
simple, delicate, lady-like minds. Idleness and thoughtless- 
ness in young girls generally lead to idle conversation. I trust 
you are on your guard. You know how I have warned you be- 
fore, entreated you to be particular in your conversation. I do 
not know anything about which I have more fears than this, for 
it is one of the greatest dangers of your present life. I have 
full confidence in you that you will be true and sincere in all 
you say, and that you will try to be gentle-tempered and 
diligent ; and I have a humble trust that, through the mercy 
of God, you will be led day by day to understand more of your 
duty to Him ; but I have a fear sometimes that, without mean- 
ing to do wrong, without being aware at first that you are doing 
wrong, you may be led into a species of talking, which may be 
a mischief to you for your whole life. Few persons, whether 
children or grown-up persons, understand how important words 
are. If we do not give way to anger, and if we are watchful to 
speak the truth, and to guard against irreverence, we are apt to 
imagine that we are quite safe. But in the Bible we read also 
of “ foolish talking and jesting,” which, it is said, are not “ con- 
venient that is, not suitable and proper. Now it is not easy 
to explain exactly what is foolish talking ; and I trust and be- 
lieve that as yet you have heard ver>' little of it, and have never 
joined in it ; but I will tell you how you may know at once if 
others, or if you yourselves (for of course what I say is for 
Madeline also), are giving way to it. 

* Whenever you speak to your companions upon subjects which 
you would not name to me or to Mrs Carter; when things are said 
which shock you, such as you never have heard at home ; or if 
you are tempted to ask questions which you would not like to ask 
me, or any person older than yourself, then you may be certain 
that your talking is foolish and wrong ; even more — sinful. As 
a plain, general rule, when you doubt whether what you are 
saying is right, stop instantly. It is possible, my dear children, 
that this rule may prove a difficult one to put in practice. Your 
companions may laugh at you, and almost force you to listen to 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 265 

them ; but if you will only persevere in turning away, and openly 
declaring that you disapprove of such conversation, and will 
have nothing to do with it, you may be certain of gaining your 
point at last. If they speak evil amongst themselves, they will 
not thrust it upon you, for there is nothing which commands 
more respect than a pure, simple mind. How great a blessing 
such a mind is, you can little know ! It is beyond all price. 
If you once lose it by talking upon wrong subjects to idle com- 
panions, it will be gone for ever. You may try for your whole 
lives, earnestly, unceasingly, but you will never regain it fully ; 
and in after years, when you would give up all your hopes of 
earthly happiness for a holy, devoted, pure heart, you will find 
yourselves distressed and haunted, as it were, by the silly, im- 
proper words and ideas, which you learned without stopping to 
consider whether they were right or wrong. 

‘ Another subject of the same kind, which I am anxious to 
mention to you again, though I have often named it before, is 
your reading. I know that Mrs Carter is extremely particular, 
quite as much so as I should be ; but she cannot be always 
with you, and it is possible that books which it is not desirable 
you should read may fall in your way. There will be less 
difficulty here in avoiding temptation. You have a plain law 
given you, and you must keep it. The books which Mrs Carter 
has not seen you are of course bound not to read. It is with 
reading as it is with conversation. Once read a wrong, bsid 
book, and the mischief it will do you can never be repaired. 
God has given us the choice of learning both good and evil, but 
He has not given us the choice of forgetting. I am writing you 
a long letter, my dearest children, but it is upon a subject which 
interests me extremely ; I did not mean to give you a dull 
lecture, but I love you so very, very dearly ; I so long for you 
to be pure-minded, and simple, and holy, it would grieve me so 
bitterly to find that you had learned wrong things at school — 
that is the reason why I am urgent. Evil conversation is the 
great fault of a school. No one can keep you from it but your- 
selves. No one, even, can exactly tell you what is evil and 
what is not. But God has given you a natural instinct which, 
if you obey, you will be safe. Once more I would say to you, 
whatever you would be ashamed of talking about to me, or Mrs 
Carter, or any person older than yourselves, that you may be 
quite certain is not a fit topic of conversation with your com- 
panions. Will you remember this ; or rather, pray to God to 


266 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


teach you to remember it, and give you strength to act upon it ? 
I shall write again to fix, if possible, the particulars of your 
journey, and fix the appointed time, though it is probable that 
you may be called home before, as your papa is expecting to be 
summoned to town on business ; and if so he must request Mrs 
Carter to allow you to return with him. I shall write by this 
same post to prepare her for seeing him, but it is veiy uncertain 
when he may go, therefore I cannot promise you any more ex- 
act notice. I might have kept all I had to say till we met, but 
your letter, my dear Ruth, gave me some uneasy thoughts, and 
I could not help writing about them. Besides, what is written 
has sometimes a greater effect than what is spoken ; at least, 
we can keep the former by us, and recall it to our memories 
from time to time. I wonder whether you will do this with my 
advice to-day. 

‘ Now may God bless you both, my children, and guard you 
not only from evil actions, but from evil words, and, even more, 
from evil thoughts. It is the daily and nightly — the hourly 
prayer of Your most affectionate Mother/ 

^ Mamma knows what school is like very well,’ said Ruth, 
when she had finished the letter. ‘ Clara began talking very 
wrongly some days ago, only I stopped her ; and since then 
she always leaves off of herself, if I come near, when she is 
rattling on in her wild, bad way.’ 

‘ I don’t know quite what you mean by a bad way,’ said 
Madeline, ‘ and I don’t think I understand what mamma 
means. I hope I never say wrong things without knowing it.’ 

Ruth laughed. 

‘ How can you, Maddy ? Mamma says that we always feel 
whether things are right or not. You can tell whether you ever 
say what you would not like Mrs Carter to hear.’ 

‘ I am not sure. I don’t think I do,’ said Madeline, 
musingly, ‘ but I should like to go home to ask mamma more 
about it.’ 

‘ There is nothing to ask about, that I can see,’ was Ruth’s 
rather hasty reply. 

^ We are not to say things we are ashamed of, and not to read 
books we are forbidden. There is nothing very difficult in that. 
There must be, though,’ said Madeline, speaking more to her- 
self than to her sister ; ‘because mamma has written so much 
about it. It must be very wrong to do so.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 267 

^ Yes, of course, it is very wrong ; but we need not do it ; 
nothing is easier/ 

Ruth put the letter into her desk, and went to the piano to 
practise. 

Madeline thought for a few seconds ; and then, as school had 
not yet begun, stole quietly to the dressing-room and prayed, 
standing reverently, with her hand before her eyes, that God 
would aid her to remember and follow her mamma’s advice. 

The day passed over very much as other days. True, Anna 
Grant was gone, her place was vacant ; but in the busy world of 
school-life there was little leisure for regret. Some missed Anna, 
some thought about her; one or two mentioned her; but all con- 
trived to manage their own affairs without her. Madeline was 
one of those who thought. She could not in an instant forget the 
shock of such a sudden event. She could not help remembering 
that Anna must be anxious, perhaps very miserable ; but when 
she made observations upon the subject to her schoolfellows, the 
greater number turned away as if they took but little interest in 
it. Their attention was given to themselves — to the daily lessons 
— the half-yearly exercise — the chance of a prize; and — what 
was always an excitement for the day — a visit from Justine Le 
Vergnier. Ruth, Alice, and Mary Vernon were the only parties 
who expressed little or no pleasure when it was said that Justine 
was invited. Janet Harding, indeed, as usual, began to criticise 
what she called her odd French ways ; but she owned that it was 
very amusing to listen to her ; and she supposed there was some 
excuse to be made for her, because she had been brought up in 
another country. Ruth had imbibed Mary Vernon’s doubt of 
Justine; and Alice could not bear to see any one who reminded 
her of the disagreeable fact that she was in a certain degree, and 
by her own weakness, involved in Clara’s bad conduct. But 
Justine came, and in the general satisfaction which her presence 
gave, individual feelings were little noticed. Clara was foremost 
as her friend ; but that seemed natural. Clara was foremost in 
all cases if she could manage it ; and no one, except Florence, 
Harriet, and Alice, suspected that anything particular was meant 
by the smiles and looks which passed between them. They 
walked late,, for the weather was very warm, and when they re- 
turned, Madeline, who had a good deal to do for the next day, 
said she intended to remain in the school-room till bed-time. One 
or two others talked of doing the same. Ruth seldom found it 
necessary to work at extra hours ; she was almost always before- 


268 


LANETOA PARSONAGE. 


hand with her studies ; and Madeline could not refrain from a 
sigh as she saw her sister take a story-book into the parlour, 
whilst she was obliged to occupy herself with a dull exercise. It 
was with rather a wandering attention that she began ; she could 
not find the right place; she had forgotten the dictionary; and, 
then, to the annoyance of her companions, she began to search 
for it, upsetting at the same time a pile of books laid upon the 
desk. 

‘What a fidget Madeline isi’ exclaimed Fanny Wilson, 
‘Why don’t you sit down quietly, Maddy.? No one can do a 
thing whilst you shake so.’ 

Madeline tried to be patient, both with herself and others, and 
took up the fallen volumes carefully, one by one, looking at each 
as she put them down. There were grammars, histories, geo- 
graphy books, all but the one she wanted; and there was 
another — a strange book, not a lesson-book — Madeline could 
not help exclaiming, as she opened it, ‘ Whose is this ? Where 
did it come from ? ’ 

Fanny Wilson looked up, and the rest said : ‘What is the 
matter ? ’ but no one seemed to care ; they were all too busy. 
Madeline sought for the name in the title page; but could not 
find it. She saw it was marked at the back as belonging to a 
circulating library ; and supposed therefore that it must have 
been brought there by Mrs Carter or Miss Barnard. 

‘ Fanny, you are going into the parlour presently,’ she said, 
‘ do take this book in, will you ? ’ 

‘All those books are Florence Trevelyan’s,’ said Fanny. 

‘ No, indeed, this one is not ; it cannot be.’ 

‘Florence put them all there herself just now,’ said Fanny, 
without raising her eyes ; ‘ pray, let them stay.’ 

Madeline was still certain that she was right ; and being 
rather determined to prove that she was so, took up the volume 
with the intention of delivering it to Mrs Carter. At the 
parlour-door she was met by Justine and Florence. Their 
eyes glanced instantly upon the book. 

Justine exclaimed, ‘ O Ciel !’ and Florence put out her hand 
to seize it, saying — 

‘ This is not yours, Madeline ; where did you find it ?’ 

Madeline explained. 

‘ How very stupid of me !’ whispered Florence to Justine. 
‘.What shall we do ?’ 

‘ Don’t say it is yours,’ replied Justine, in the same voice. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


269 


‘ I have said it, all but and then speaking aloud to 'Made- 
line, Florence added, ‘ Give me the book, Madeline ; it is my 
concern, not yours/ 

Madeline looked astonished, and said it could not oelong to 
Florence ; it was a library book. 

‘ Just give it me, Maddy ; there ^s a good child. I will take 
care of it.^ 

‘ Yes, surely ; it belongs to Florence,^ remarked Justine, find- 
ing that it would not serve their purpose to deny the fact. 

Madeline still hesitated. 

‘ Circulating library books cannot be yours, Florence.’ 

‘ Yes, this one is ; do give it me. Why will you be trouble- 
some ?’ 

Miss Barnard at that instant appeared at the head of the stair- 
case. 

‘ This way ; do not stand talking there,’ said Justine, im- 
patiently, and she led the way to the dressing-room, closed the 
door, and exclaimed — 

‘ O Madeline ! tu es bonne, aimable, pennets que je le 
tienne.’ 

Justine took hold of the book so gently, and spoke so softly, 
that Madeline, little in the habit of opposing any one, especially 
Justine, did not resist. She gave up the point; and Justine, 
uttering vehement expressions of gratitude, glanced at Florence 
with a smile of triumph, and was going away ; but Florence 
appeared less satisfied, and whispered — 

‘ Wait, Justine, wait. Madeline knows now; do ask her not 
to teU.’ 

‘ Surely,’ replied Justine, as if the request was a matter of 
Course, ^ Madeline will not say anything. The book is not 
hers ; there is no reason she should talk of it.’ 

^ If you would only tell me why,’ answered Madeline, quite 
puzzled. 

‘ Why ? oh, no reason, nothing particular,’ said Florence, 
unable to find any satisfactory answer ; ‘ but we wish it. Just 
say that you will not mention the book, that is all.’ 

Madeline thought for an instant, and then replied that she 
did not like to make promises ; she could not understand what 
they wanted, and she would rather not. Justine placed herself 
before the door. 

‘ Madeline, ch6re petite ! ’ she began ; ‘ dcoutes pour un 
moment.’ 


270 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


Madeline paused very willingly. It was really difficult to her 
to do anything which seemed ill-natured. Justine proceeded 
rapidly in a mingled jargon of English and French; entreating, 
urging, protesting, there was no harm, no cause exactly for con- 
cealment ; only she wished it. She should be wretched if Made- 
line did not promise : ending with a sentence which had a 
great effect upon Madeline — ‘ Ah, que je t’aime, et tu me feras 
malheureuse !’ 

After this, Madeline could scarcely say no. It might be some 
private affair of Justine’s ; something in which, as she said, there 
was no harm. The hesitation was evident. 

‘ She will promise ; she has promised,’ exclaimed Justine, 
turning to Florence ; ‘ how we shall both love her ! ’ 

Justine threw her arm caressingly round Madeline, but Made- 
line did not feel exactly inclined to return the embrace. 

‘ Let her say the word,’ said Florence, in rather a sulky 
tone. 

‘ Oh no, we will trust,’ replied Justine, with a sweet smile. 
‘ She is so gentle, so good ; ’ and unfastening a very pretty little 
brooch, she placed it in Madeline’s hands, adding, as she kissed 
her, that she must keep it as a ‘ gage d’amiti^.’ 

Madeline was so taken by surprise by this action, that she 
had not presence of mind to determine whether to accept or 
return the ornament ; and even before she could express her 
thanks, Justine was gone, and Florence Trevelyan with her. 
Madeline stood with the brooch in her hand, feeling extremely 
uncomfortable ; bound by an implied promise, without in the 
least intending it ; and the promise sealed by a gift. What 
should she do 1 Ruth naturally came to her remembrance ; she 
would ask her advice ; but no, that could not be ; it would be 
breaking her promise. Yet she had not made a promise, but 
then Justine trusted her; Justine fully believed she had. Made- 
line had seldom found it so difficult to decide what was right 
to be done. It struck her whether it would not be proper to 
return the brooch. Yet why should she do so ? Justine 
had not given it her as a bribe ; that would really be shocking. 
She had spoken of loving her, and of the gift being a mark of 
affection : there could be no harm in that. Madeline examined 
the brooch ; it was very elegant ; and she had never pos- 
sessed a brooch before. It would be useful also ; brooches were 
much more useful than rings. She only wished Ruth could 
have one like it. These thoughts passed very quickly through 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


271 


her mind, and as they passed, they strengthened the wish, 
which before was but slight, of retaining the brooch. She might 
show it to Ruth, and say that Justine gave it her, without men- 
tioning the book. Certainly, Madeline might have done this ; 
nothing would have been easier ; but she had been brought up 
in habits of perfect sincerity ; anything approaching to deceit 
was contrary to this habit : it was unnatural and painful ; and 
Madeline had scarcely resolved that she would keep the brooch, 
before she repented the resolution, and began to reconsider it. 
Fanny Wilson happened to come in while she was yet unde- 
cided. . The brooch was in her hand, and Fanny remarked it; 
inquired whose it was, and how she came by it. Madeline had 
but one answer to give — that it was Justine’s present ; and 
Fanny wondered and admired, and thought how extremely fond 
Justine must be of Madeline, and then ran away to tell the 
news to her companions. Madeline’s time was just then par- 
ticularly precious to her : yet she could not make up her mind 
to go back to her lessons ; she felt so very uncomfortable. If 
it were not for the brooch, all would be easy ; but as it was, 
what would it be best to do ? 

The temptations natural to us from the dispositions wdth 
which we are born, follow us through our whole lives. Made- 
line was now in natural taste what she had always been. She 
had still a liking for ornaments and finery. But she was not, 
as once, the silly, thoughtless child, giving way quickly, and 
not having strength to draw back. No one can begin acting 
upon religious principles very early in life as she had done, 
without acquiring a firmness of character and clearness of con- 
science, which others, who leave religion till they are advanced 
in years, often strive for in vain. God’s special blessing attends 
those who give themselves to His service in childhood. And 
Madeline, with all her faults, carelessness, love of finery, hasti- 
ness of temper, was yet a child of God, not only because she 
was made His at her baptism, but because it was her earnest 
endeavour to strive against her faults and to please Him. A 
quick sense of right and wrong was Madeline’s great blessing. 
It warned her now to stop ; to pray for the help of God ; to 
ask herself whether, even supposing there was no positive harm 
in keeping the brooch, it would not be safer to give it back ; 
whether she would not then be more free to act as she thought 
right. It was no duty to keep it — it might be a duty to return 
it. In such cases the safest way is the best way of deciding. 


272 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Madeline resolved that she would give back the brooch before 
Justine went away that evening. 

It was a sacrifice undoubtedly, but she did not hesitate. She 
unfastened the brooch — without trusting herself to look at it 
again ; put it up in paper, and was on her way back to the 
school-room, when in the passage — she encountered her sister. 
Ruth’s face was flushed and eager, and her step quick : she 
ran up to Madeline, and said : ‘ Justine has given you a brooch, 
Maddy ; but you must return it, you must not keep it for the 
world.’ 

‘ I am not going to do it,’ replied Madeline, quietly. ‘ But 
what do you know about it ? Why ought I to return it ? ’ 

‘ Alice says so,’ replied Ruth. ‘ She came to me into the 
parlour and told me, and said, that you had better not have 
anything to do with Justine, for that you would get into trouble 
if you did, and she begged me to come and stop you.’ 

‘ Thank you, Ruth, dear,’ replied Madeline, in the same 
simple, unconcerned tone. ‘ I think Alice is right ; I do not 
mean to keep the brooch ; I am sure it is better not ; but it 
was very kind in Justine to give it me.’ 

‘ Perhaps so, but I don’t like her ; she is up to mischief ; 
she and Florence, and Harriet, and that dreadful Clara.’ 

Madeline showed some surprise at these words. The last 
expression was very unlike the gentle, mild, forgiving Ruth. 

‘ Clara Manners will be the ruin of the school, Maddy,’ con- 
tinued Ruth ; ‘ but I will find her out. I will know what it is 
she is at, some way. But, tell me, what made Justine give 
you the brooch .^’ 

‘ I cannot tell,’ replied Madeline ; ‘ at least, not till I have 
spoken to Justine and Florence.’ 

‘ Not tell me, Maddy ! Why, I am your sister ; you tell me 
everything.’ 

‘ Yes, so I do, and I mean you to know, but I must speak 
to Justine first ; I must give her back the brooch. She would 
call me mean else.’ 

‘ It must be something very wrong, if you are not to talk 
about it to me,’ said Ruth, with some irritation in her tone. 
‘ But you can tell me one thing. Was it about a book ? I 
cannot help thinking that is the secret, because I am nearly 
sure I saw Justine draw out a book from under her shawl, and 
give it to Florence.’ 

‘ I had rather not speak about it till I have seen Justine,’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


273 

answered Madeline, decidedly. ‘ When I have, you shall 
hear all I know ; not that I really know anything.’ 

‘ And then, Florence carried another book up-stairs this 
morning,’ said Ruth. ‘ She was very mysterious, and so was 
Clara. The secret must be about a book. Justine is bringing 
in books secretly. How extremely wrong !’ 

Madeline withdrew from her sister, and went on to the school- 
room, unwilling to betray by her face the belief that Ruth had 
guessed rightly. 

Ruth stood thinking ; full of excitement, curiosity, and — shall 
it be said ? — revenge. She felt that she had guessed rightly. 
If she had not, Madeline would have said something to prove 
it. Clara Manners was doing what Mrs Carter most particu- 
larly disapproved. No rule was more strictly maintained than 
that which forbade any books, even from the different homes, 
to be read in the school-room without Mrs Carter’s approval. 
If Clara were known to encourage any such practices, her in- 
fluence, supposing she had any, would be at an end. Fler 
threats against Ruth would be powerless. Ruth was resolved 
to discover and to expose Clara’s conduct. How, was a mys- 
tery yet to be solved. 

While she was leaning in a musing attitude against the balus- 
trade at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Carter came out of the 
parlour. ‘ Ruth, my dear,’ she said, ‘ Dawson is gone out ; I 
wish you would go up-stairs for me, and take up Florence and 
Harriet’s new bonnets ; I am afraid of their being spoiled if they 
are left below.’ Ruth ran quickly up the stairs, with a feeling 
at her heart which she did not examine, but it was satisfaction ; 
the thought that by some means she might now have an oppor- 
tunity of examining into the secret. The request seemed quite 
singular, coming at such a moment. 

She deposited the bonnets carefully in the closet, and then 
looked round the room. Its appearance was very much as usual 
— just the same books were lying on the drawers, everything was 
very neat. Ruth took up the books, and moved some boxes, 
feeling half ashamed of herself as she did so. Conscience 
whispered that she was seeking to gratify her own evil temper, 
not to please Mrs Carter. Still there was nothing to be seen, 
and Ruth was going away, provoked with herself for having 
spent time to no purpose, wher. it struck her that she might as 
well search carefully in the closet, amongst the shawls, and 
dresses, and handkerchiefs. No place was more likely to be 

S 


274 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


chosen for a hiding-place ; for Dawson was the only person who 
ever went there, and there was not much fear of her making a 
remark about books. Ruth searched with considerable trouble ; 
carefully replacing the different articles, that it might not be 
seen they had been touched. That alone was disagreeable to 
her — to be taking pains not to be found out. Still she went 
on ; now that she had begun, there seemed the more reason 
for doing so ; and all the time she said to herself that it was 
wrong to allow things to be done which Mrs Carter might dis- 
approve ; it was her duty to find out the truth. But was it 
Ruth’s duty ? Was it her place to be prjdng and searching 
amongst things which did not belong to her ? Was it her duty 
to act in a manner which she was ashamed of? Would it not 
have been the most straightforward course to have gone at 
once to Mrs Carter, though with the risk of being blamed for 
suspicion, in case nothing were discovered against Clara ? 
Ruth wished to gratify her spite, and yet avoid the possibility 
of censure. The indulgence of the one great fault of her 
character had lowered her tone of mind, so that she could not 
see the path of duty. That is one reason why it is so neces- 
sary to strive against all our faults ; because if we give way to 
any one, it will certainly lead us into others. The closet had 
been examined with much care, and Ruth began to think once 
more of departing. She was moving a set of shawls in the 
farthest extremity ; it was not probable that anything should be 
there ; they were too tidily folded one upon another for a hiding- 
place ; but Ruth pushed them aside merely to be quite sure, 
and, as she did so, she felt something hard wrapped in one. 
Her curiosity and suspicion were awakened in an instant. The 
shawls were drawn out, unfolded, and in the middle of one was 
found a book ; Eie book Ruth was certain it must be ! the book 
which Justine had brought Clara. Ruth opened it at the title- 
page. It was called a novel — she scarcely knew what that 
meant — a translation from the French. She looked at one or 
two of the pages, merely from curiosity, to see what the story 
was like. It seemed very interesting, and there was a good 
deal of conversation in it. Ruth liked conversations particu- 
larly. She read down a page, fancying that she was only 
wishing to discover whether there was any harm in the book. 
The sentence finished on the other side, and she turned over 
the leaf. Then it seemed still more interesting. She must go 
on a very little way ; and the very little way became a longer 


lane TON PARSONAGE, 


275 


\vay ; the longer way became a chapter ; the chapter became 
two — still Ruth read. And what did she read } what good 
principle did she gain.? Ruth felt all the time that she was 
reading something wrong. She could not have told why ; she 
could not have explained a great deal that met her eye ; but the 
quick instinct which God had given her by nature, which He gives 
to us all when we are very young, made her conscious that the 
book was one of which her mamma would disapprove. Ruth 
was conscious, but she did not stop to consider her own feelings. 
There is nothing more enticing than reading. Our eye catches 
a word a few lines beyond the part we have begun ; almost be- 
fore we are aware of it, we are there. We say we will leave off, 
but the same thing happens again, and all the time we are not 
aware how quickly the minutes are passing ; and our sense of 
duty is deadened by the interest of the scenes described. Those 
short minutes may do mischief which the labour of years can- 
not undo. They may give us a knowledge of evil things which 
otherwise we might never have known, and the knowledge of 
evil does in itself border upon sin. When we doubt whether 
we are right, then is the instant to stop — to close the book — to 
turn from the conversation. 

If Ruth’s highest principles had then been acted upon, this 
she would have done instantly ; but she had yielded to one 
temptation, and she fell under another. When the shadows of 
evening had deepened ; when it was dark, so that she could 
scarcely tell the words, Ruth laid down the book, and asked 
herself what she had done. That clear awakening of the con- 
science to the knowledge that we have committed some parti- 
cular offence for the first time, how keen, how overpowering it 
is ! It pierced Ruth’s heart with the sharpness of a dagger. 
She had sinned. She had done what, till that hour, she had 
never been tempted to do. She had been warned that very day ; 
her mother’s words were still fresh in her memory ; yet she had 
offended. The fleeting pleasure was over, the enduring pain 
remained. Ruth did not cry ; she was too oppressed for tears. 
She did not think of going to Mrs Carter and owning what she 
had done. Images of the persons of whom she had been read- 
ing filled her brain. She seemed to have been admitted into a 
new world, to which, even in the midst of her shame and con- 
fusion, she longed to return. Then came the heavy, burden- 
some sense of guilt ; the fear of being found out ; the humili- 
ating, degrading recollection, that she who had entered the room 


276 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


bent upon discovering the fault of another, was now a sharer in 
the same offence. 

Presently she fancied that some one called her name. She 
ran into her own room with the book still in her hand, and 
listened again. She was not called, but a footstep was heard 
upon the lobby, and without further consideration, Ruth opened 
the nearest drawer, one in which Janet Harding’s winter dresses 
were put away, and thmst the volume beneath a cloak. The 
footstep passed her room, it sounded up the attic stairs. It 
could only be a servant, but Ruth was so. entirely bewildered, 
nervous, and frightened, that she could not stop to arrange her 
ideas, and ran down to the parlour in the dread lest the next 
instant should bring some one to look for and discover her. 
Candles were just being lighted. No one was thinking of Ruth ; 
no one was watching her. Only Mary Vernon asked if she was 
not well, she was so silent. Ruth had a headache ; — yes, a 
very bad, throbbing headache. But she had a worse pain than 
that — the pain of an aching heart. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 



HE bright sun shone cheerfully into the front bedrooms of 


■E Mrs Carter’s house the following morning. It was six 
o’clock ; the bell sounded to waken the family. Ruth slowly 
unclosed her eyes. Her eyelids were pressed down with sleep; 
her dreams had been disturbed ; a weight lay upon her heart ; 
she did not rise at once as was her custom. A change seemed 
to have come upon herself and upon everything about her. Af 
length she summoned resolution to get up. Over the blind of 
the window the front entrance could be seen, and beyond it 
the high road, and an opposite house and garden. It was pre- 
cisely what she had beheld the day before ; the sounds were 
precisely what she had heard ; the rumbling dray-cart, the light 
rattling cab, the early cries, and the sounds below in the house ; 
the unbarring of doors, unfastening of shutters : all was the 
same outwardly. But alas ! Ruth’s feelings told too truly that 
it was not the same to her. Life is made up not of events, but 
of actions, and thoughts, and feelings. Our lives, the life cf 
each individual, is not what has happened to him, but what he 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


277 


has done and thought. So a man lives as truly in a dungeon 
as on a throne ; his life is to himself in its eternal consequences 
equally important. So the Almighty Lord, ‘ who only knoweth 
the hearts of the children of men,’ looks with the same interest 
upon the beggar and the prince, for He sees that both are pass- 
ing through the same conflict, both hurra ing to the same end — 
Eternity. 

This new day of Ruth’s life was new in a sense which no 
mere outward change of circumstances could make it. It was 
a day of new trial. 

Ruth had done wrong ; she had offended against her mother’s 
warnings — against Mrs Carter’s rules ; she had sinned in the sight 
of God. Yet the offence was not of that grievous nature to 
render her despairing of her own principles, or doubtful of for- 
giveness. It was her peculiar character which made it so 
serious. There was one simple course for Ruth to adopt — the 
acknowledgment of her fault to Mrs Carter. In one sense it 
would have been easier now to blame her companions than be- 
fore : in accusing them she would accuse herself also. But 
accuse herself ! — it was the last idea likely to enter Ruth’s 
mind. She, to whom all looked up, who was admired — 
praised ! She, who was certain of a prize, certain of being 
made first in the school ! No ; others who had nothing to 
lose might accuse themselves, but not Ruth. Still something 
must be done, and soon. When Ruth went down-stairs, she 
saw Clara and Florence watching her. They were evidently 
annoyed, and they seemed suspicious. Ruth knew they must 
have missed the book ; but she was safe from any inquiries as 
long as she did not betray anything by her countenance. Her 
spirits became more and more depressed as the business of the 
day went on. The interest which she usually found in her 
studies was over, for she could give them only a divided atten- 
tion. Again and again the idea of confessing what she had 
done presented itself, and it might have been entertained and 
acted upon but for one circumstance : that morning’s post 
brought the intelligence of the death of Anna Grant’s father, 
and the certain announcement that she would not return to 
school. After the first expression of sympathy was given, 
some one named Anna’s office — that which she was to have 
had. It was merely a casual, passing observation, but Ruth 
heard it though she was sitting at a distance from the speaker ; 
she heard it, felt it — felt that many eyes were directed to her ; 


278 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


felt that every one was thinking of her. The flush of pride was 
on her cheek ; one moment’s thought, and there came a sud- 
den, sharp pang at her heart — a deep, deep shame. The flush 
was gone, and her cheek and lips grew white. It was the sign 
of an inward struggle, of conscious humiliation and determined 
pride, and pride was victorious. Ruth thought no more in ear- 
nest of confession. 

‘ What shall I do about the brooch, Ruth ? ’ said Madeline, 
when the morning lessons were over. ‘ I had not an oppor- 
tunity of giving it back to Justine last night, and I don’t at all 
like to keep it.’ 

‘ The brooch ! ’ repeated Ruth, wonderingly ; ‘ oh ; I re- 
member. Yes, of course, you must give it back. Was that 
Florence who went out of the room with Clara ? ’ 

‘ No ; it was Fanny Wilson. Ruth, dear, what is the mat- 
ter ? You look so pale ? ’ 

Ruth answered that her head ached ; it had been aching all day, 

‘ Don’t worry about that exercise, then,’ said Madeline. 
‘ Come and sit upon the window-seat with me, and have a talk 
till dinner-time.’ 

Ruth followed mechanically, but instead of talking she rubbed 
her finger up and down the pane of glass, hunting the flies .from 
spot to spot ; and fixed her eye upon a particular shrub in the 
garden, from which she scarcely once removed it. Madeline 
began the conversation without thinking much of Ruth’s silence ; 
the headache sufficiently accounted for it. It was a great plea- 
sure to Madeline to be alone with her sister, and tell out all 
her little grievances, her hopes, and anxieties. Madeline felt 
as if Ruth must be at least a year older than herself, for she 
seemed always able to give her advice, and was often the means 
of preventing her from committing great mistakes. This time 
Madeline had one particular care which she was half ashamed 
to confess, even to Ruth. It was the consequence of the old 
fault, carelessness. She had kept her accounts less strictly of 
late, and, before the holidays, Mrs Carter was accustomed to 
look at- the account-books. She was not angry if they were not 
correct, but she was much pleased if they were, and Madeline 
had set her heart upon doing well in everything. She had been 
trying very hard to remember all she had spent, but the money 
would not come right by eighteenpence. Reckoning what she 
had bought, and what she believed was owed to her, still the 
eighteenpence remained a mystery. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


279 


* And it is not like a little sum, Ruth,’ she said. ^ It is not 
like a penny, which I could have lost. Eighteenpence is such 
a great deal ; I cannot think what has become of it.’ 

‘ But are you sure you have searched for it properly ? ’ asked 
Ruth. ‘ I mean, are you sure that no one owes it you ? ’ 

‘ Yes, very nearly ; I think I know all. There is Fanny 
Wilson’s sixpence, and Jessie’s twopence for the cakes, and a 
penny which Janet Harding borrowed the last time the fruit 
woman came, and the shilling I lent Alice at Richmond. I 
cannot remember anything else.’ 

‘ Then take my advice, Maddy,’ said Ruth. ‘ Make them 
all pay you to-day ; then you will have it right as far as you 
can, and very likely in settling with them you will remember 
something about the eighteenpence. I often remember when 1 
begin in that way, though I may have quite forgotten before.’ 

Madeline thought the notion a good one, and, jumping down 
from the window-seat, was upon the point of addressing Janet, 
when some one said that Justine was in the passage. She had 
brought a parcel from her father. Madeline’s thoughts imme- 
diately returned to the brooch, for she could not be quite happy 
till it was given back. She left her sentence to Janet half- 
finished, and ran out of the room. Justine had laid her parcel 
upon the hall table, and was about to go into the dressing-room. 
Jessie O’Neile was with her, and Madeline heard Justine tell her 
to go very quietly into the school-room, and whisper to Clara 
that she wanted to speak with her. Jessie ran away, and Justine 
went into the dressing-room. Madeline did not quite like to 
follow ; not that she repented her resolution, but it seemed un- 
gracious. She knew herself how annoyed she should be at 
having a present returned : but this was the only opportunity 
she might have for several days ; and summoning all her strength 
of mind, she boldly pushed open the door. Justine was standing 
with her back towards her, and exclaimed — 

‘ Ah, Claire ! ’ 

‘It is not Clara,’ said Madeline, blushing and awkwardly 
holding out the brooch. 

‘ Ah ! chere petite ! ’ and Justine came forward to kiss her. 

Madeline submitted to the kiss, but tried to disengage heiself, 
and, putting the brooch before Justine, she said — 

‘ I am very much obliged for this ; I think it beautiful ; but, 
if you please, I had rather not have it, if you don’t mind.’ 

Justine’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


280 

* Tiens ! impossible ! qu’as tu, mignonne ? ^ 

‘ I would rather not, if you please,^ said Madeline, whose 
courage was returning, now that the first step was taken. ‘ I 
should be more happy without it ; and, Justine, I did not make 
the promise, though you said I did.’ 

Justine’s surprise still continued. She could not understand 
what Madeline wished or meant to say. 

‘ Ecoutes ! ’ she began. At that instant Clara threw back the 
door, and rushed eagerly into the room. 

‘ It is all over with us, Justine ! ’ — then seeing Madeline she 
stopped and corrected herself. ‘ School is just over. So you 
are come at the exact moment. Maddy, I heard Ruth asking 
for you a minute ago. She wants you, I suspect.’ 

Madeline, too glad of an excuse for departing, put the brooch 
on the table, pushed it towards Justine, and departed without 
another word. When she was gone, Clara allowed no time for 
Justine to speak. She was full of her own fears ; the second 
volume of the novel was gone from the closet — where, she could 
not imagine. Neither Florence nor Harriet knew anything about 
it. They could get nothing from Alice. They half suspected 
Ruth ; yet Ruth could not have told Mrs Carter, because nothing 
had been said about it, and the book had been missed the 
previous night. 

‘ Perhaps it is one of the servants,’ continued Clara ; ‘ but 1 
cannot guess which. No one but Dawson ever goes there, and 
I don’t think she would have taken it away. We are in a great 
fuss about it ; my only hope is that Florence has made a 
mistake ; that she did not carry it up-stairs, though she fancies 
she did, and that it is mislaid.’ 

‘ But Madame does not know,’ said Justine, ‘ so there is no 
fear yet at any rate.’ 

Clara could not see this ; but Justine thrust the subject aside, 
and ' brought forward that upon which she was peculiarly in- 
lerested herself — the subscriptions. ‘She must,’ she said, 
‘ have all the money paid at once ; the woman at the shop was 
urgent.’ 

‘ I have paid my share ; all I agreed to pay,’ said Clara. ‘ I 
am not going to give any more.’ 

‘ But you have not all paid,’ replied Justine. ‘ Some one has 
not.’ 

‘ It is Alice’s stupidity,’ said Clara. ‘ We reckoned upon her, 
and she would not join us. I don’t see what is to be done. I 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


281 


am sure I will not pay any more, and I know that Harriet and 
Florence have not a farthing.’ 

* Ah ! mais — que ferons nous ? ’ asked Justine in alarm, 

‘ I don’t know ; it is all Alice. We cannot manage without 
her.’ 

‘ Where is she .?’ inquired Justine. 

‘ In the school-room, or somewhere — I don’t know where. 
What was the business between you and Madeline about the 
brooch ? ’ 

Justine repeated what had passed, and Clara’s brow grew 
dark with fear and annoyance. 

‘ That tiresome child ! ’ she exclaimed, ‘ I would rather have 
to manage any one in the school, even Ruth, than her. You can 
never make her see things your way. She will do us mischief 
somehow.’ 

‘ But the subscriptions,’ interposed Justine. ‘ I am to go home 
directly, and I must take the money with me.’ 

‘ The only thing to be done that I can see,’ replied Clara, after 
a moment’s thought, is to get hold of Alice and frighten her. 
Happily there are some visitors just gone into the drawing-room, 
so we shall not have dinner just this minute.’ 

^ Hates-toi, done,’ exclaimed Justine, and Clara did hasten. 
She went instantly to the school-room, and summoning Alice 
from her employment, informed her, in an under-tone, that Jus- 
tine wanted to speak with her very particularly. Alice was 
reckoning up the marks for the good-conduct prize ; only two 
were deficient. With common care she was sure of it. Her 
heart bounded with satisfaction as she thought of this. Lady 
Catharine now would really see that she had been trying. 
Clara’s voice disturbed her pleasant thoughts : it was always 
associated with something disagreeable. She asked what she 
was wanted for, pleaded business, and said that she did not 
wish to go ; but Clara insisted, and Alice, having no real ex- 
cuse, was compelled to obey. Clara closed the door of the 
dressing-room, and stood against it, so that no one could enter, 
and then, breaking suddenly into the middle of Justine’s civil 
speeches, she opened the business. But it could scarcely be 
called opening. Clara knew Alice sufficiently to be aware of 
the best mode of dealing with her, and at once, abruptly, as if 
asking only a matter of right, she demanded her share of the 
subscription for the library books. Poor Alice stood “silent, 
overcome by the suddenness and boldness of the request. 


282 LANETON PARSONAGE, 

‘ Mais tu es gauche/ interrupted Justine. ‘ Alice, mig- 
nonne ! ’ 

‘ No, no,’ exclaimed Clara; ‘leave the matter to me. Alice, 
you know very well that it is owing ; I have spoken to you 
about it before.’ 

‘Before! where?’ exclaimed Alice with indignation. ‘You 
never spoke to me ; I always told you I would have nothing to 
do with it.’ 

Clara placed her hand quietly on Alice’s shoulder. 

‘ You never said that when you read with us on the Sunday 
afternoon ? ’ 

Alice pushed aside the hand, and answered, with flashing 
eyes — 

‘ Clara, you deceived me. You showed me the book, but 
you told me nothing about paying.’ 

‘ I trusted to your honour,’ said Clara, in the same quiet 
manner. 

Alice burst into tears. 

‘ I have no money,’ she said. ‘ I owe all to Madeline, if I 
had it ; but Florence will not pay, so I actually have none.’ 

‘ I will lend it you,’ said Clara. 

Alice partially recovered her self-command, and remained.for 
a few moments thinking. Justine approached her with a fond- 
ling gesture, but Alice stood quite passive. 

‘ Here is Florence Trevelyan,’ said Clara, as some one gave 
two gentle taps at the door ; ‘ her wits will never help us.’ 

Florence came in with a look of idle vacuity and curiosity. 
She knew something secret was going on, and she was deter- 
mined to find out what it was. 

‘No secret,’ said Clara, contemptuously; ‘but we are all in 
a mess. Alice refuses to pay.’ 

‘ No, Clara, no,’ exclaimed Alice ; ‘ I do not refuse to pay, 
but I say that you have no right to ask me.’ 

‘ Depechez-vous, mes amies,’ began Justine, playfully. 

‘ I shall go,’ said Alice, withdrawing herself from Justine. 

‘ Nay, excuse me,’ interposed Clara, standing directly in front 
of her : ‘ we cannot let you off quite so easily, Alice. , We will 
soon manage to inform the whole school how they may trust 
you. To be mean I I would not be mean for the world.’ 

‘ It is just as mean in Florence not to pay me my eighteen- 
pence,’ said Alice. 

Clara caught up the words. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 283 

* Not to repay you your eighteenpence ! Would you give it, 
then, if you had it?’ 

‘ I don’t know ; I would not be mean ; perhaps — I can’t 
tell — I owe it to Madeline.’ 

^Nonsense! owe it to Madeline!’ exclaimed Clara. ‘Why, 
you can pay her at any time — when you go home — there is not 
the least hurry. If the money were yours, would you let us have 
it ?’ 

‘ I cannot say ; it is not mine,’ replied Alice, and a look of 
bewilderment crossed her face. 

‘ It would be right to give it, there is no question of that,’ 
said Clara ; ‘ is there, Justine ? Alice read the book, and now 
she is bound to pay for the pleasure.’ 

Justine entirely agreed. 

‘ You would not like Justine to think you mean? ’ said Clara 

‘ I should not like any one to think me mean,’ answered 
Alice ; ‘ I could not bear to be thought it ; but I have not a 
farthing. If you would give me the world I cannot pay. 

‘ But Florence owes you eighteenpence. Let her off that, 
and then it shall go for your share, and she and I will settle the 
subscription now without you. We have some little money 
affairs together.’ 

‘ I cannot think what I shall say to Madeline,’ said Alice, 
who found her resolution beginning to fail. 

‘ Say nothing ; leave it to chance, and trust to Madeline’s 
good-nature ; she will never tease you about such a trifle.’ 

‘ And it would be very kind to me,’ observed Florence. 

‘ How absurd I Florence,’ exclaimed Clara. ‘ Kind to you ! 
How can there be any particular kindness in Alice’s paying 
what is due?’ 

Alice looked extremely angry, but Clara gave her no oppor- 
tunity for expressing what she felt ; and taking the money 
required from her own purse, she gave it to Justine, saying to 
Florence as she did so — 

‘ Then we are quits, Florence, now. You have paid your 
share, and so have Harriet and I ; and, besides, you ought to 
pay for Alice, instead of returning the eighteenpence.’ 

‘ But I cannot,’ interrupted Florence, in a tone of alarm. 

‘ Well, don’t be frightened. I have settled it, because I owe 
you for the fruit and cakes you bought for me the other day. 
Do you understand?’ 

It was quite necessaiy to ask this question, as Florence was 


284 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


famed for dulness in all matters of reckoning. She did not 
now clearly comprehend such a very intricate mode of arrange- 
ment, and Clara was obliged to .explain still further. Even 
then Florence was puzzled ; the only impression remaining on 
her mind being that she was free, and that in some way Made- 
line was implicated. Alice would still have drawn back, if 
possible, but Clara silenced her by saying that the case was 
settled ; and the summons being given for dinner, the party in 
the dressing-room separated, not, however, before Justine had 
given Alice ‘ mille remercimens ’ for her good-nature. 

Alice met Madeline, when they went into the dining-room, 
with a very painful feeling ; a sense of shame, a consciousness 
of having been unjust, almost dishonest. She had consented 
to give up money which did not in fact belong to her, because 
she could not brave the taunts of Clara Manners, and dreaded 
to be called mean. Tme, she intended to repay Madeline, but 
this would not be in her power for some time, and in the 
meanwhile she must make excuses — false excuses — for she 
could not own the real truth, Alice was full of these unplea- 
sant thoughts the whole of dinner-time, trying to determine 
what she should say to Madeline ; angry with herself for having 
so weakly yielded to a claim which was not just, and still more 
angry, even vexed and sorrowful, at the remembrance of the 
first fault which had brought her into the difficulty. And all 
Alice’s troubles were increased by one great defect in her 
character ; very common — at first sight, not very important — 
but most certain to do infinite harm to all who indulge it. 
Alice was deficient in moral courage — the courage necessary to 
be straightforward. It was in this especially that she was 
inferior to Madeline ; the difference could be seen in their 
manner. When Madeline had done wrong, she would blush 
and tremble, but she would look up and speak out without 
faltering ; and, as she spoke, every one felt that her lightest 
word was to be depended on. When Alice had done wrong, 
her eyes were downcast, her voice was hesitating, her sentences 
were broken. It was only by questions that the truth could be 
brought out, and then Alice often corrected herself, and made 
mistakes, and at last was obliged to own the whole truth, 
merely because she had become so confused that it was the 
only way left her of escape from perplexity. So, in the present 
instance, the last idea which presented itself to Alice’s mind was 
that of simply stating the truth ; and saying to Madeline that 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


28s 


she had lost the change given her at Richmond, and had paid 
away the money with which she intended to replace it. Alice 
fancied that if she did this, some mischief would arise. Made- 
line would inquire, or suspect ; something would happen, she 
did not know what. No ; she must excuse herself, delay, 
borrow from some one else, anything rather than the easiest, 
best way of arranging the affair. Madeline touched Alice’s arm 
as they were waiting in the hall, preparing for the afternoon’s 
walk, and said — 

‘ Alice, could you attend to me for one moment?* 

Alice found her heart throb, and was ashamed of herself 
for her cowardice. 

‘ There is not time now,* she said, for she was certain that 
Madeline was going to ask for her money. 

‘ Well, then, when we come in, if you can. I want to settle 
accounts with you. Mrs Carter will look at the books to- 
morrow, and mine are not right.* 

‘ Very well.* 

Alice felt the delay of an hour and a half to be a reprieve ; 
but the prospect of the conversation made her very uncomfort- 
able. Clara came near and whispered — 

‘ Alice, what are you thinking of?* There was no answer ; 
Alice moved away and Clara followed. ‘ I know, Alice ; you 
need not run away from me.* 

‘ Yes, I do need,* replied Alice, bitterly. ‘ It is you, Clara, 
who always make me miserable.* 

‘ Miserable ! what a word ! What should you be miserable 
about ? * 

‘ Madeline v;ants her money,* replied Alice. 

‘ How do you know that ?* 

‘ Because she told me ; and what can I say to her ?* 

‘ Madeline does not want her money,* replied Clara. ‘ I 
know more about it than you do.* 

‘ How ? what do you mean ?* 

‘ She wants the shilling, not the half-crown.* 

‘ But have you spoken to her ? have you told her ?* exclaimed 
Alice. 

Clara laughed. — ‘ No ; trust me for being so foolish as that 
but 1 know still ; I have heard her talking. She cannot make 
her accounts come right, and she thinks she has lost the 
eighteenpence. She does not know that she lent it to you. 
She must have given it to you by mistake.* 


286 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


‘ But what difference can that make to me ? * 

‘ Simply, that you need not tell. If she is so careless, she 
deserves to be punished for it.’ 

‘ O Clara ! how shocking ! how dreadful!’ exclaimed Alice. 

‘ It would be as bad as stealing.’ 

Alice spoke so loudly that several of her companions heard 
her. Clara stopped her instantly. 

‘ Alice, are you mad?’ she said, and Alice was instantly sub- 
dued. ‘ You will ruin us all,’ continued Clara, reproachfully ; 

‘ I would give worlds if we had nothing at all to do with you. 
How can you think I should dream of stealing ? ’ 

‘ You said as much,’ said Alice. 

‘ No, I did not. I meant nothing of the kind. All that I 
said was, that if Madeline was careless she deserved to be 
punished.’ 

‘ But you implied that I need not tell her about the eighteen - 
pence,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yes, of course I did ; but there is no stealing in that. You 
may pay her when you get home. You need not keep the 
money in the end.’ 

‘ Only not tell her now,’ said Alice, thinking. 

‘Yes; not let her know of the mistake. She won’t really 
care, and Mrs Carter will not think more of it than usual, for 
Madeline’s accounts are never right.’ 

‘ But it will make Madeline unhappy,’ said Alice ; ‘ she will 
fret about it.’ 

‘ Oh I no, she will not ; she thinks it lost ; and she will soon 
be satisfied. It is but a very little pain for her, and for you it 
might be the greatest mischief possible. Something would be 
sure to be found out, if Mrs Carter were to inquire why you did 
not repay the money.’ 

Alice almost wished it might be ; this continued concealment, 
this being placed under Clara’s power, subject to her threats and 
her entreaties, was more painful than any punishment inflicted 
by Mrs Carter could have been. Still her cowardice stood in 
the way. It seemed safe to say nothing, and it was not dis- 
honest. Alice’s conscience misgave her. Was that quite true? 
was it not dishonest ? Though Madeline might not be worse 
off in the end, would she not be worse off now ? And was it 
certain that she should be able to pay her when they went 
home ? Lady Catharine was not much in the habit of giving 
her money, and she could not ask for it. An inquiry would 


L/INETON PARSONAGE. 


. 287 


then be made why it was wanted, and something might be dis- 
covered of the truth. Of all things Alice dreaded Lady 
Catharine’s knowing that she had done anything wrong in 
money affairs ; it was a subject about which she was particularly 
strict. Her own bills were paid monthly ; she was quite an- 
noyed and uncomfortable if this was not done, and she had 
often warned Alice against that very common species of dis- 
honesty in young persons, the running in debt for articles for 
which they cannot afford the purchase, or which, if they are paid 
for in the end, must in the meantime cause inconvenience and 
perhaps loss to another. Alice knew, she was quite certain, 
that Clara’s plan was a wrong one. She said, ‘No, it could 
not be : she would not listen to it.’ 

They returned from their walk. Alice took off her dress 
quickly, and went to the school-room. Madeline hastened after 
her; her bright, open face clouded by annoyance. She asked 
Alice for the shilling which she had lent her at Richmond. 
Alice gave it. Madeline lamented the loss of her eighteenpence. 
She begged Alice to help her in discovering what had been done 
with it ; and Alice hid her face under pretence of searching in 
her desk. Madeline went on lamenting and wondering ; and 
Alice replied, ‘ I am very sorry.’ Madeline kissed her, and 
thanked her, and said — ‘ Alice, you are always sorry for any 
one in trouble.’ 

Then Alice’s heart did indeed reproach her ; but courage, 
moral courage, oh ! how sad it is to be deficient in it ! Alice 
allowed Madeline to leave her under a false impression, and 
when she was gone, saw herself in her true light, weak, selfish, 
and dishonest. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


HAT were Ruth’s feelings during the course of that busy 



vv day ? It is a question difficult to answer. Ruth could not 
have answered it herself. But they know, who, like her, having 
sunk m their own esteem by the commission of an undetected 
fault, are too proud to own their offence, but too conscientious 
to endure still to listen to words of approbation, and who pass 
through the necessary routine of occupation with a heavy heart, 


288 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


a dull, abstracted look, a weary spirit of indifference, whilst 
hiding in their own breasts the bitter sense of shame. 

Ruth was pitied for her headache when it was known that 
she had one ; her lessons were excused ; she was allowed to 
stay by herself in the drawing-room, and read. Delicacies were 
provided for her ; Mrs Carter came to sit with her, and talk 
to her ; Miss Barnard took trouble to make her comfortable. 
Madeline looked really anxious ; and Ruth grew more and 
more wretched ; her only satisfaction being the miserable one 
of knowing that Mary Vernon, who was gone to spend a few 
days with a friend, was not at hand to remark upon and inquire 
into her unhappiness. The first idea of discovering Clara’s fault, 
Ruth had entirely given up. She could not do it. Clara must 
follow her own plans ; she must corrupt the minds of others ; 
she must disobey Mrs Carter ; Ruth must know it and be 
silent — and why ? Because Ruth was too sincere to accuse 
another of a fault in which she had in a measure participated ; 
and yet could not own herself wrong, and risk Mrs Carter’s 
displeasure, and the loss of her position in the school. There 
was but one thing now to be done : to restore the book to its 
hiding-place, and say nothing. Ruth heartily wished that she 
had done so at once. By giving way to the impulse of fear, 
she had increased her own perplexities tenfold. Whilst the 
book remained in Janet Harding’s drawer, there was no safety 
for any one ; yet how to restore it was a great difficulty. She 
was sure that Clara had missed it ; but a few words overheard 
in the course of the day made her aware that it was supposed 
to have been possibly mislaid. She must therefore take ad- 
vantage of the first opportunity to replace it. And there were 
several opportunities Ruth thought. Several times she tried to 
find an excuse for going up-stairs to fetch something, but each 
time Mrs Carter chose to send some one else ; not wishing, as 
she said, that Ruth should trouble herself when her head was 
so bad. The day passed over, evening came, Ruth found 
herself alone in the drawing-room, in the twilight. She did 
not like to be alone, especially when it was growing dusk. It 
made her nervous to watch the gradual fading of the light ; to 
find the objects about her growing indistinct ; to have less and 
less to distract her thoughts. That is one blessing of night 
when we choose to make use of it. It shuts out the objects 
which disturb us by day. It brings before us the reality of 
God’s presence ; the a\vfulness of His purity and holiness. It 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


289 

is as when we look into the purple sky, and see the pale stars 
shining from afar, and the moon traversing the infinity of space. 
There they were when the sun shone brightly, when the glare 
of the day wearied us, when we walked through crowded 
streets, and transacted the business of life with our fellow-men. 
There they were, pure and unchangeable, passing on their 
wondrous way, but we saw them not. And there also was He 
who made them ; present in the cheerful home, in the noisy 
town, in the crowded shop. We saw not the calm moon, we 
did not look for the glittering star, and neither did we think of 
. he God who was watching over us, whose Eye was upon our 
secret thoughts. Now, darkness has fallen upon the earth, 
and heaven is open before us ; and with the sight of heaven, 
shall not the remembrance likewise return of Him who is its 
Maker and its Lord ? 

Ruth trembled in the twilight. But let us not be mistaken ; 
it is dangerous to think lightly of any fault, but it is also 
dangerous to magnify what we have done wrong beyond what 
it really deserves. Ruth’s fault, as has been said before, would 
have been of a less serious nature if she had only possessed the 
courage to confess it. It was her pride which was the great 
evil. When Ruth thought of what she had done with the 
idea of acknowledging it, her heart for an instant grew light. 
She knew that Mrs Carter would be vexed, but she knew also 
that she would forgive. It was only when she dwelt upon the 
consequences of her confession ; the probability, the almost cer- 
tainty, that it would cause Mrs Carter to doubt her steadiness of 
principle, and lower her in the opinion of her companions, and 
interfere with her being chosen judge, that she really became 
perplexed how to act. Now she sat in the twilight thinking ; 
very unhappy, very unwell ; her head throbbing violently, long- 
ing for bed-time, yet afraid that if she did go to bed she should 
not be able to sleep. Below, there were the usual school sounds: 
laughter, voices, a piano, and a harp. Ruth almost resolved 
to go down ; anything was better than staying alone. She 
wondered Madeline did jiot come to her, she thought it unkind. 
Presently there was a sudden lull ; the music stopped in the 
middle of a bar ; there was a rush as if all were collecting 
together to hear something ; then a single voice spoke, and im- 
mediately afterwards Madeline ran up the staircase. She burst 
eagerly into the room, but checked herself, and said, in a gentle 
tone — 


T 


290 LANETON PARSONAGE. 

* Ruth, dear, I forgot ; I hope I did not disturb you/ 

‘No, not at all, thank you,’ replied Ruth, ‘ I have been ex* 
pecting you some time ; why did you not come before ? ’ 

‘ Because — indeed, I did not forget you, Ruth ; I wanted to 
come to you very much ; but I fancied it would be better to 
wait till it was all settled, because you would like to hear.’ 

‘ Settled ! what inquired Ruth. 

‘ Oh ! I must tell you all from the beginning ; but you won’t 
be in a hurry, will you ? We were talking down-stairs about 
Anna, and Mary, and who should be judge, and a great many 
of them said you ; only Clara set her face against it.’ Ruth 
grasped the arm of her chair with an energy of feeling which 
she could not control. 

‘ Clara objected,’ continued Madeline, ‘ and so did some of 
the others ; and Harriet Trevelyan was proposed, and then we 
all laughed ; and one or two others were mentioned, and some 
one said it would be pleasant to have a regular choosing day, 
and a box with votes, and to settle before we went home, be- 
cause if any new girls came next half-year, they would not 
enter into it ; and we thought it would be nice to have 
Mary Vernon here, and, in short, to do it all regularly and pro- 
perly ; and at last we settled it delightfully, and they sent me 
to the study to ask Mrs Carter about it ; and she called Miss 
Barnard, and they talked together, and at last they sent for me 
again, and told me we might, and I ran into the parlour just to 
let them know, and then I came up -stairs to you. O Ruth, 
won’t it be charming ?’ 

‘ Yes, very,’ replied Ruth, in a faint voice. 

‘Ah ! you don’t care for it to-night ; your poor head is bad; 
but you will to-morrow ; and it concerns you more than any 
one ; of course you will be chosen.’ 

‘Not of course, if Clara has her way,’ said Ruth, in a bitter 
tone. 

‘ Oh ! that is all nonsense,’ answered Madeline ; ‘ Clara can 
do nothing against you ; you are such a favourite. And Mrs 
Carter thinks you will be judge, I am sure, because she smiled ' 
so, and said to Miss Barnard that I seemed particularly inter- 
ested in the matter.’ 

Ruth could not bring herself to answer, but Madeline’s head 
being full of the subject, she was contented to run on by her- 
self, describing what they meant to do, and how they were to 
arrange the school-room, and how each one was to write the 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


291 


name of the party she preferred upon a card ; and how when 
the election was over, they were to enjoy themselves by having 
a holiday, and, if it was fine, a fete in the garden. 

Ruth said ‘ yes,’ and ‘ no,’ and ‘ very pleasant,’ at intervals, 
and with this Madeline was satisfied. 

The subject of the brooch and the secret connected with it 
was not once alluded to ; Ruth remembered it, but dared not 
approach a topic which she felt convinced was connected with 
the hidden book, and Madeline’s conscience being clear, she 
had soon ceased to dwell upon it. 

The sisters remained talking together till it was quite dark, 
and Ruth expressed a wish to go to bed. Madeline went to 
ask Mrs Carter’s permission, but Mrs Carter was busy, and 
she was detained some time before she could speak with her ; 
and just as she had given Ruth’s request to Miss Barnard in- 
stead, the bell rang for prayers, and Miss Barnard settled the 
question by saying that Ruth had better come down to prayers, 
and go to bed with the rest. This was but a trifling circum- 
stance, yet it was very important to Ruth. It prevented her 
from replacing the book, and caused her an additional anxiety. 
Mrs. Carter kissed her very affectionately when she went to 
wish her good night ; and said she should come and see her 
after she was in bed. She trusted the headache would be better 
to-morrow, for every one was grieved when Ruth was ill ; she 
was so kind and useful. 

Ruth longed — yes, she longed intensely, to unburthen her 
heart ; to rid herself of the oppressive weight of her secret and 
her fault. But the acknowledgment — that was the stumbling- 
block, and Ruth went to her room silent, and very sad. 

‘ Alice,’ said Madeline, the next morning, just before break- 
fast, ‘ do you know Mrs Carter means to look at the account- 
books to-day .?’ 

Alice’s face grew a little pale. ‘ Does she ? She will not 
find mine right ; I never try to keep them so.’ 

‘ Mine would be right, if it were not for that eighteen pence. 
I cannot imagine what is become of it. I never knew anything 
so strange.’ 

Alice could not find a word to reply ; she waited an instant, 
and then inquired how Ruth’s head was. She had a vague 
idea still of talking to Ruth, of acknowledging everything to 
her. If Ruth had been one degree less perfect in her eyes, she 
might have done so before, but she feared her look of utter 
astonishment at such naughtiness. 


292 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Madeline replied that Ruth’s head was better, but she did 
not look at all well, and Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard both 
had remarked it. Madeline hoped that Ruth would be quite 
well soon. It would destroy all the pleasure of choosing the 
judge if she were not, and some one had said that most probably 
the day would be fixed almost directly. Alice expressed neither 
pleasure, nor hope, nor fear. Hpw cold and dull it makes us 
to do wrong — to have any evil to conceal ! There were several 
subjects of interest mentioned at the breakfast table; the choice 
of a judge, the different prizes, the holidays, the various journeys. 
Ruth took no part in the conversation ; she was meditating in 
what way to find an excuse for going again to her room. Clara 
took no part in it ; she was wondering and fearing what could 
have been done with the lost volume. Alice took no part in it ; 
she was humbled and conscience-stricken at the sense of her 
own meanness. ^ There will just be time for me to look at the 
account-books, before Monsieur Le Vergnier comes,’ said Mrs 
Carter, as she rose from the breakfast table. ‘ I should wish 
those who have tried to keep them correctly, to bring them to 
my study.’ This order was of no consequence to many. It 
was an affair of choice whether accounts should be kept or not. 
Madeline took her book reluctantly from her desk. It was 
neatly written, correctly added up. It was the first occasion on 
which she had, upon the whole, tried to do her best in being 
regular and careful : but the unfortunate eighteenpence made 
all wrong. She lamented it again and again ; first to Ruth, 
\hen to Janet Harding, then again to Alice, and every word was 
sharp and piercing to Alice’s conscience, until the effort at hid- 
ing her feelings became almost more than she could bear. 

Madeline went to the study, with a face which was a clear 
sign of her emotion. She knocked, but received no answer — 
and knocked again. Still there was no reply ; and she waited, 
leaning against the wall, and not knowing whether it would be 
right to open the door and go in. There was a ring at the bell, 
which she knew to be Monsieur Le Vergnier’s, and from the 
sounds she guessed that some one was with him. Immediately 
afterwards, Clara Manners ran out from the school-room, and 
passing the study door, went into the entrance hall. Madeline 
heard her speak, and knew the voice that answered ; it was 
Justine’s. Monsieur Le Vergnier went into the school-room. 
Justine and Clara remained talking together. Madeline thought 
it would be better to go away, but at that instant, Mrs Carter 
appeared from another part of the house. She listened, and 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


293 


asked who was in the hall. Madeline told, and Mrs Carter, 
desiring her to wait in the study, went on. Madeline remained 
as she was directed, though rather impatient, for she wanted to 
go back to her lessons. It seemed strange that Mrs Carter 
should stay so long. The study door was open, and presently, 
to her surprise, Clara came into the passage alone. Her face 
was clouded with anger and pride. Her eye caught Madeline’s, 
and she said, in an under-tone : ‘You have your will now ; it 
is all over with us.’ 

‘What ! how, Clara?’ exclaimed Madeline. 

Clara caught away the corner of her dress which Madeline 
held, and, instead of going into the school-room, rushed up the 
stairs to her room, closing the door with a sharp, echoing 
sound. 

Madeline was frightened. Clara’s words were an enigma; 
but Clara’s face was quite pale. Something wrong had been 
discovered ; there was no doubt of that. For some minutes 
longer Madeline waited in vain ; and then being summoned to 
Monsieur Le Vergnier, 'she left her account-book open on the 
study table and went away. 

Clara Manners was asked for many times as the French 
lesson began. It was proposed to send for her, but a message 
from Miss Barnard stopped all questions, though it did not stop 
curiosity. ‘ Miss Barnard’s compliments to Monsieur Le Verg- 
nier, Miss Manners would not be able to take her lesson that 
morning.’ Ruth’s cheek became of a bright crimson when she 
heard this, but the colour was soon gone, and she continued her 
lessons as before. 

‘Justine! ou est Justine? ma fille?’ asked Monsieur Le 
Vergnier, in the course of the lesson. 

The question created some surprise. ‘What ! was Justine 
come?’ No one had seen her. ‘ It was not usual for her to 
come without being invited in school hours.’ 

‘ But this morning,’ Monsieur Le Vergnier said, ‘ she told 
him that she had particular business ; however, it did not 
signify, she must be gone home ; it did not signify ; ’ and he 
shrugged his shoulders, and went on teaching. 

Madeline was the only one who doubted whether it did not 
signify. Miss Barnard sat in the school-room keeping strict 
order and silence, and looked very severe. Monsieur Le 
Vergnier’s politeness was thrown away upon her ; she paid 
him the necessary civilities, and nothing more, and when he 


294 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


rose to depart, her bow was colder, more unbending than 
ever. 

‘ Miss Madeline Clifford is wanted in the study,’ said Dawson, 
coming to the school-room door. 

Madeline rose instantly. Alice whispered, What is the 
matter ? ’ but Madeline put her finger to her lips, and hastened 
to obey. Once more she stood before the study and knocked, 
and there was a quiet cold answer, ‘ Come in.’ 

Mrs Carter was alone, sitting in her usual position in the arm- 
chair by the side of the table. Her finger rested upon Madeline’s 
account-book ; another book, shabby and dirty, lay near. On 
a chair, in one corner, was Justine Le Vergnier’s bonnet. 

‘ Madeline,’ said Mrs Carter, fixing her mild but searching 
eye upon her, ‘ this is your book, I believe.’ 

‘ Yes, ma’am, my account-book. I left it here this morning.’ 

‘ I have been looking at it ; it is not right.’ 

‘ No, ma’am,’ replied Madeline, boldly. ^ It is wrong by 
eighteenpence. I cannot tell how.’ 

‘ You cannot tell ? But you must have some idea. You have 
kept all the rest so carefully, you must have some notion what 
you have done with it.’ 

* No ;’ Madeline had none whatever ; and, whilst owning this, 
she blushed deeply. 

Mrs Carter repeated, still looking at her steadily, ‘ You are 
quite sure you have not lent it.^ quite certain ?’ 

Madeline could not be certain. Mrs Carter’s manner, with- 
out her intending it, confused and distressed her. 

Mrs Carter considered a little, and then said more kindly, 
though still with something of restraint, ‘ Very well, my dear ; 
you may go.’ 

Madeline departed, much more uncomfortable than she came. 
She went back to the school-room ; the usual lessons were going 
on — reading, geography, practising. Madeline took her share 
in each, yet still her thoughts wandered. What could that 
strange, short interview mean 1 Where was Clara ? Why was 
Justine’s bonnet in the study .? How provoking it was that she 
could not talk to Ruth ! Madeline looked anxiously at Ruth as 
she thought this. There had been something in her sister’s 
face all the morning which perplexed her. It was a look of 
suffering ; yet Ruth had said that she was nearly well. One 
o’clock — lessons were over — silence ceased ; and talking — such 
talking began. So fast ! so eager ! so confused ! Each one 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


295 


bent upon speaking for herself. Madeline sat down by Ruth, 
and passed her hand affectionately over her forehead, and kissed 
her, and called her her own dear Ruth, and wished she was 
quite well ; it was wretched to see her so changed. The faint 
smile which played upon Ruth’s features made her real feelings 
only the more visible. 

‘ May I talk a little to you, Ruth ?’ continued Madeline, ‘ I 
want to tell you about some things very much.’ 

Ruth gave a quiet assent, and resting her forehead upon her 
hand, listened whilst Madeline related what had passed during 
the morning. When she came to Clara’s words, ‘ It is all over 
with us now,’ Ruth started, and Madeline stopped, and asked 
if she was in pain. But Ruth’s calm reply was, ‘ No, thank 
you ; go on.’ And Madeline went on. 

< Can you guess ? can you think, Ruth, what is the matter .^’ 
she said, as she concluded. 

Ruth shook her head ; she could not utter a falsehood. 

* It was the same book, I am nearly certain,’ continued Made- 
line, ‘ which I saw upon the study table, that Florence Trevelyan 
said belonged to her, on that day when Justine gave me the 
brooch. I meant to have told you all about that, only we have 
been thinking of other things. By the by, where is Florence ? ’ 

Missing ; — Harriet was missing also ; both had been sent for 
during the morning lessons. Their absence was generally re- 
marked, every one was whispering and looking, for it was 
becoming evident that a secret there was somewhere. 

‘ Dinner will be ready in a minute,’ said Madeline, finding 
that Ruth was little inclined for conversation. ‘ Won’t you come 
into the dressing-room, and get ready ? ’ 

Ruth had no appetite for dinner : she would much rather have 
remained where she was ; but she dreaded to attract notice, and 
went with Madeline, and tried to join in the general observations, 
and to be as little unlike herself as possible. Still it was re- 
marked how ill and pale Ruth looked, and some feared that if 
she were not better all the pleasure of the election day would be 
over. Pleasure was spoken of, but there was not much cheer- 
fulness in the tone of the party, the idea of a secret weighing 
upon all — upon one especially besides Ruth. Alice knew quite 
well what was going on. She felt herself less guilty than the 
others ; she had not given way entirely to temptation ; and she 
hoped that whatever might be found out she might obtain for- 
giveness ; but her mean, dishonourable conduct to Madeline 


296 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


was not to be forgotten. Once or twice she thought she must 
tell her, even though it might be the means of bringing herself 
into disgrace as a partaker in the fault of the others. This was 
especially the case when she heard Madeline mention the 
account-book, and again express her sorrow and surprise at the 
mistake or loss, about which she said Mrs Carter appeared ver>' 
much annoyed. Alice felt then, that although she might repay 
the money, she was still dishonest. 

The dinner passed very silently. Clara, Florence, and Harriet 
were absent. Only one thing of importance happened. Some one 
mentioned the next day but one as desirable for the election of 
the judge, because Fanny Wilson was going home the day after, 
and would be vexed to miss it. Mrs Carter became very grave, 
and did not instantly reply ; but after a pause she said, ‘ They 
might choose their o\vn day — it might be the one named if 
they wished it.^ But this cold consent was not at all what was 
desired. Generally speaking, Mrs Carter took a great interest 
in aU their pleasures ; now it seemed an effort to her to attend 
to anything. Grace was said ; the cloth removed ; the ser- 
vants had left the room ; and the benches being pushed back, 
a general move follo'wed for aU to return to the school-room. 
Mrs Carter spoke. ‘ Stay, my dears, aU of you,’ and every- 
voice was hushed, every movement stopped. ‘ I wish to speak 
to you all ; I have something particular to say.’ Mrs Carter’s 
words came one by one, as if dragged from her ; and those 
who ventured to look in her face, saw that its expression was 
unusual. A pause, so long as to alarm even the most innocent 
and indifferent, succeeded. Madeline stood by Ruth, and 
noticed that she caught the arm of a chair near, and grasped it 
firmly, w'hilst Alice twisted a silk chain which hung round her 
neck, till it was thoroughly entangled. [Madeline’s own heart 
beat quickly, but she looked up without shrinking ; for what had 
she to conceal ? 

Mrs Carter continued : ‘ Some of you, I hope many, are 
doubtless quite unprepared for -what I am going to say. There 
are others, I fear, whose consciences will at once accuse them. 
Before I proceed further, I wish all to understand that to con- 
fess a fault freely is the surest road to forgiveness.’ 

Stillness ! so that a pin might have been heard to fall ; yet 
in the stiUness Madeline heard Ruth’s quick, irregular breathing. 

Mrs Carter waited for an answer in vain, and again she 
jpok.e rapidly — for her — firmly, almost abruptly. ‘ One of my 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


297 


strictest rules — one about which I am most anxious, has been 
broken. Books have been introduced into the house without 
my knowledge. This one ’ — and the volume of the novel 
which Madeline had seen in the study was laid upon the table — ■ 
‘ this book, which it is a disgrace for any lady to look into, was 
found this morning in the hands of Mademoiselle Le Vergnicr. 
I say nothing with regard to her conduct ; her foreign educa- 
tion must be her excuse. Those who have joined with her can 
plead no such excuse.^ Mrs Carter’s eye passed slowly from 
one to the other. It rested anxiously upon Madeline, doubt- 
fully upon Alice, and to Ruth she said, kindly, ‘ Sit down, my 
dear ; you look as if your head ached terribly.’ 

‘ I might,’ continued Mrs Carter, 1 question you all separately 
as to your knowledge of this business. I might in that way 
more certainly discover the truth ; but I would rather be open 
with you, as I trust you will be with me. I mean to tell you 
all that I know, and then, I hope I am not mistaken in be- 
lieving that even those who have done wrong will be too 
honourable to conceal it. This morning, as I before said, I 
found this book accidentally — I ought rather to say provi- 
dentially — in the hands of Mademoiselle Le Vergnier. It was 
brought for Clara Manners and Harriet and Florence Trevelyan,’ 
This announcement created no surprise ; but Alice marvelled 
how her name should have escaped. ‘ So far,’ pursued Mrs 
Carter, ‘ there is no doubt ; the parties have themselves con- 
fessed their fault. How painful it was to me to hear their con- 
fession, to feel that I could no longer place confidence in them, 
I will not attempt to describe. At first I believed that the evil 
ended with them, but I was mistaken ; there are two others, 
who have been named as having a knowledge, at least, that the 
practice of reading books by stealth was carried on in the 
school. Alice, I appeal to you — and Madeline.’ Madeline’s 
colour rose in a sudden glow of indignation. In an instant she 
had stepped forward from the circle, and was standing alone 
before Mrs Carter. Alice looked around her hurriedly, and her 
limbs shook, and her lips moved, but she did not utter a word. 
‘ Before I hear what you have to say,’ added Mrs Carter, ‘ I 
would remind you, and not you only, but all, that in a case like 
the present, any confession which is not strictly true is an injury 
to others as well as to yourselves. If you are not thoroughly 
sincere, it is almost impossible but that some one should be 
accused unjustly. I know you would be shocked at the idea of 


298 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


accusing any one falsely by words. I earnestly pray that you 
may not be induced to do so by silence. Now, Alice, let me 
hear what you can tell me.^ A general hush of expectation 
followed this command. Every glance was directed to Alice ; 
even Madeline turned round, forgetful of her own painful posi- 
tion, in her anxiety to discover how far Alice was involved in 
Clara’s offence. 

And what could Alice say ? what did she say ? She began 
plainly, simply, acknowledging that she had joined with Clara 
by reading a part of one book, on one occasion, and that on a 
Sunday afternoon ; but denying any further participation in the 
fault. ‘ Clara,’ she said, ‘ had requested her to join, but be- 
lieving that it was against Mrs Carter’s wishes, she had con- 
stantly declined.’ So far all was strictly true, and Mrs Carter’s 
face grew more cheerful, and twice she smiled a smile of ap- 
probation, as Alice repeated that she knew she had done wrong 
at first, but she was sorry for it, and had tried very much to 
avoid following Clara’s example. If Alice could have told the 
same tale of struggle against temptation even to the end, she 
need have little feared the loss of her prize ; but here she 
paused. Mrs Carter looked at her, evidently expecting some- 
thing more. ‘ Is that the whole ? ’ she said. Alice would have 
given all she was worth to know the meaning of the question ; 
to understand how much Mrs Carter knew. She did not say 
it was ; but she muttered something unintelligible, which was 
understood to mean so. 

‘ Thank you, Alice, for what you have told me,’ continued 
Mrs Carter. ‘ As far as it goes it agrees with what I had pre- 
viously learned. Now, Madeline, I trust that you will be equally 
candid.’ 

Madeline’s eyes were raised in mingled confusion and 
astonishment. ‘ Candid ! what could she be candid about ? ’ 
She recollected : it must be the promise. Yes, there was nothing 
else — there could not be. In a very eager tone, without the 
smallest hesitation, she broke at once into the subject. ‘ She 
did not know anything about reading wrong books ; she had 
never heard of any one’s doing so ; but one day she found a 
book like that,’ pointing to the novel, * amongst Florence 
Trevelyan’s, and she thought it was Mrs Carter’s ; but Florence 
and Justine said they knew about it, and begged her not to 
tell ; and Justine thought she had promised, but she had not ; 
and she did not think much more about it, for she had nevei 
heard anything more after that one occasion.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


299 


*■ And Justine gave you a brooch, Madeline,^ said Mrs Carter, 
sternly ; ‘It was upon condition that you should not tell — it 
was a bribe/ 

Madeline’s start of disgust spoke more plainly for her sincerity 
than any words. She turned to her companions, ‘ Who had 
accused her t Who had spoken so falsely ? ’ 

Mrs Carter checked her impetuosity. She said quietly, ‘ It 
was Florence Trevelyan who told me you had received it. She 
mentioned it as a mark of your intimacy with Justine, and a 
sign that you were a participator in the secret.’ 

Madeline gave a quick, bright glance of conscious innocence 
at Ruth, and with a voice which she vainly tried to keep sub- 
dued, answered, ‘Justine did give me a brooch. I did not 
know it was a bribe. I thought she was fond of me ; but I 
could not promise what she wished, and I gave it back. Ruth 
knows that I did, and Justine has it now ; ’ and Madeline 
looked earnestly at Mrs Carter, watching the effect of her ex- 
planation. 

Truth, it is said, is all-powerful. There was truth in every 
tone of Madeline’s voice, in every gesture, even in the sparkle 
of her clear, intelligent eye. Yet Mrs Carter’s brow relaxed 
but little of its severity. She turned again to Alice. ‘ This 
sounds well,’ she said, ‘ but there is something beyond ; I have 
not heard all from both of you. There was a subscription for 
the books ; Clara, Harriet, and Florence subscribed, and some 
one else. I have examined those concerned separately, and 
have received different accounts. Clara says it was Alice who 
gave the money. Justine states that she received it, but she 
did not exactly understand from whom it came. Florence tells 
me that the money was Madeline’s. Madeline, bring me your 
account-book.’ 

Madeline stood as if thunderstruck. 

‘ Bring me your account-book,’ repeated Mrs Carter. 

Madeline, as she moved away, caught Ruth’s eye, and read 
in it that she doubted her. Alas ! for that heart which has 
learned to suspect evil in another, because it is conscious of it in 
itself. 

When Madeline returned, her eyes were filled with tears ; 
she laid the book before Mrs Carter in silence. It was opened 
at the last page. 

Mrs Carter pointed to the figures, and said, ‘ Madeline, the 
account is wrong by eighteenpence ; eighteenpence was the 
amount of the subscription to the library.’ 


300 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


Madeline drew herself up proudly. ‘ She did not know it ; 
she had never heard that there was a subscription.^ 

‘ Eighteenpence was the share paid either by you or by 
Alice/ continued Mrs Carter. ‘ Let me advise you to think 
once more ; have you no recollection, no idea, what has become 
of this money ? ’ 

‘ None whatever.’ Madeline’s voice grew firmer. 

Ruth leant forward and caught her hand. Her face was 
deadly pale, and in a faint whisper she said, ‘ Madeline, dearest, 
pray tell.’ 

Madeline’s hand was withdrawn impatiently. ‘ Ruth, you 
are wrong,’ she exclaimed, ‘ I have nothing to say. I would 
own to twenty times the fault if I had done it.’ 

Ruth sunk back in her chair, and put her hand to her 
forehead. 

Mrs Carter placed a smelling-bottle by her side, and said 
very affectionately, ‘ My love, you may go if you wish it : this 
only distresses you ; but we will hope Madeline is right.’ 

Ruth did not take advantage of the permission. 

Mrs Carter sat for some instants deep in thought ; whilst a 
low murmur passed round the circle. Suddenly she rose, and 
once more addressing them all, said, ‘ There is in the house 
another volume of this book ; if any one present has any 
knowledge where it is to be found, I request, I earnestly request, 
that I may be told.’ 

No answer, only wondering looks of astonishment and ig- 
norance. 

‘ Alice,’ said Mrs Carter, ‘ do you know ? Madeline, do you? 
Janet ? Fanny ?’ Mrs Carter was going round regularly. 

A faint scream from Madeline stopped her. Ruth’s head 
was drooping powerless ; she was fainting. Mrs Carter’s 
natural kindness in an instant returned ; she supported Ruth, 
and bathed her forehead, and spoke fondly to her, and then, 
with the assistance of Miss Barnard, carried her up-stairs, and 
laid her upon the sofa in the drawing-room. Miss Barnard 
remained to watch her, and Mrs Carter returned to the dining- 
room. The short absence had been a time for busy conver- 
sation to all but Madeline and Alice. Madeline’s fears for 
Ruth had absorbed all thoughts of her own situation ; quiet 
tears stole down her cheeks, and every trace of excitement or 
anger had faded from her face. Alice sat like a statue ; the 
voices around her, the persons, the circumstances in which she 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


301 


was placed, were as nothing to her ; her thoughts were busy 
with memories of the past ; before her mind’s eye there floated 
a fair, gentle, shadowy image ; a face of beauty, purity, holi- 
ness — the face of her mother. And with her mother there 
came another remembrance, the thought of one whom she 
honoured, although she feared her ; whose happiness in life 
was bound up in her good conduct. When Lady Catharine 
Hyde first became the friend of Mrs Lennox, it was at school ; 
the foundation of their affection was laid in the upright honesty 
of heart which had induced Lady Catharine to acknowledge 
another’s goodness, even though by so doing she condemned 
herself. Who would love Alice for the same cause ? 

Mrs Carter returned. The expression of Alice’s face was 
strangely altered ; she pressed her lips together, and a bright 
pink spot burned upon her cheek. One foot was advanced as 
if she would have spoken, but Mrs Carter gave no heed to her ; 
her words were addressed to all equally. ‘ I wish you to go 
to the school-room, and to remain there. Since this mystery 
cannot be cleared up in any other way, the house will be 
searched until the book is found.’ 

A blank look of dismay fell upon all. No one there present 
had cause to fear the search, but all felt bitterly the change in 
Mrs Carter’s manner. They turned away sorrowfully and 
silently. Mrs Carter laid her hand upon Madeline’s shoulder, 
and said, ‘ Wait ; ’ but before she could continue, Alice’s voice 
interrupted her. Those who were leaving the room did not 
hear what was spoken ; even Madeline did not, though she 
was standing very near ; but Mrs Carter bent her head and 
said — 

^ Certainly, directly if you will. Madeline, go with the rest. 
Let no one leave the school-room ; my sister will join you 
there shortly.’ 

Madeline followed her companions, and Alice was left with 
Mrs Carter. 

For a quarter of an hour Madeline sat alone — bowed down 
with shame and grief for an offence of which she yet knew her- 
self to be innocent. She was sent for to the dining-room ; 
another ten minutes passed. Then the door slowly opened, 
and Madeline and Alice came in together. Madeline’s arm 
was thrown round Alice, and she whispered to her, ‘ Let me 
manage it ; don’t vex yourself.’ But Alice withdrew herself, 
and walking into the centre of the room, stood at the top of the 


302 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


long table. Madeline sat down to her desk as before. Aliceas 
chain was twisted and untwisted ; she coughed, looked round 
her, took up a book, sat down for a moment, got up again, 
and at last exclaimed : ‘Mrs Carter knows about the subscrip- 
tion now ; it is all right, and Maddy had nothing to do with 
it ; and so you need not trouble yourselves, or ask any ques- 
tions. Maddy was right ; that ’s all ; ’ and then poor Alice, 
her face of a burning crimson, and her eyes full of tears, rushed 
out of the room, and waited for several minutes in the passage 
to endeavour to recover her composure. 

The true meaning of this speech was not to be gained from 
Madeline. Her companions crowded around her, and ques- 
tioned her, but Madeline only looked distressed, and said it 
did not concern any one but herself ; only Alice was very 
good-natured, and she loved her dearly. She would be very 
much obliged if they would leave her alone, and not make quite 
such a noise, because Ruth was lying down in the back draw- 
ing-room, and it would disturb her. 

But Madeline could keep nothing from Ruth, neither did 
Alice wish it. Now that the confession had been made to 
those whom it principally concerned, Alice was too much 
troubled to desire approbation which she did not deserve — 
especially Ruth’s. She could not, indeed, be at ease, until 
certain that Ruth was made acquainted with her fault, and she 
would have been willing that Madeline should speak to her at 
once ; but no one could venture to go up-stairs, though Made- 
line longed to know whether Ruth was better. 

‘ There will be no walking beyond the garden this evening,’ 
said Miss Barnard, as the clock struck five. ‘ I am going 
there myself ; I shall expect to see you all out in a quarter of 
an hour. Remember no one goes up-stairs.’ 

Madeline ventured to ask if she might sit with Ruth. Miss 
Barnard was not sure ; she would speak with Mrs Carter first. 
Presently a message was sent by Dawson, saying, that the Miss 
Cliffords might be together, but no one else was on any account 
to go even into the dressing-room. Dawson would fetch the 
bonnets and shawls. 

Alice stopped Madeline as she was hastening out of the room. 
She tried to speak to her, but the words would not readily 
come ; there were tears instead. ‘ You are going to Ruth,’ she 
said, at length. 

‘ Yes, but Alice, dear, never mind. Ruth will understand, 
and she will thank you so much for being good-natured.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


303 


Alice shrunk from the thought of gratitude. * If she does 
not hate me, that is all I can expect. And she will want to tell 
Mary Vernon, and then some one else, and they will all know. 
Madeline, what will they think of me ? I am so miserable, and 
I can’t bear being with them all here ; everything is dull and 
changed. Shan’t you be glad when it is found out who has 
the book ? ’ 

‘ I don’t think any one has it,’ replied Madeline. ‘ I don’t 
think any one could hide it all this time. I believe it has fallen 
down somewhere, or is mislaid.’ 

‘ Yes, perhaps so ; but what will be done about Clara and 
Justine ? How strange it is without them ! ’ 

‘ You miss Clara more than I do,’ said Madeline ; ‘ I did not 
like her ever.’ 

‘ It is not missing exactly, but things are dull, and my heart 
is heavy, just as if a weight was upon it.’ 

Madeline was on the point of saying, ‘ Go, and talk to the 
others ; ’ but that did not seem quite the advice to be given. 

‘ They are all settling about the election,’ said Alice, looking 
at a party which had gathered round the window to dress for 
the garden. ‘ I cannot imagine how they can think of it now ; 
and Ruth ill, too. It will be no good to have the election the 
day after to-morrow.’ 

‘ You forget about Fanny Wilson’s going away,’ said Made- 
line ; ^ and perhaps Ruth will be better, and Mrs Carter will 
have forgiven Clara by that time.’ 

‘ Forgiven ! no, that is not likely ; I never saw her so much 
in earnest in being angry with any one. O Maddy, if they 
would but be quiet ! they make me wretched with the noise.’ 

^ Shall I ask them ? ’ said Madeline. 

‘ No, no, not for the world ! they would want to know what 
is the matter. You had better go — never mind me. 

‘ But I cannot leave you crying, dear Alice ; shall I come 
into the garden with you ? ’ 

‘No; go to Ruth; she ought to have you. I thought I 
should be happy when I had told ; but I am not.’ 

Madeline grew very thoughtful for a few moments; then she 
said — 

‘ You know, Alice, what Mrs Carter talked about ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; the being wicked. I don’t forget it ; I know it was 
very wicked.’ 

‘ And about saying prayers,’ continued Madeline, with great 
hesitation. 


304 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


* Yes ; but I cannot do that till bed-time ; I wish I could/ 

‘ We can say little prayers at any time/ said Madeline, and 
her colour heightened. 

‘ No, not now, when they are all about.^ 

‘ Yes ; just to ourselves ; a few words we can,^ said Madeline. 

< Oh, no ; I cannot ; they will come and interrupt.’ 

* But if you take a book in your hand, and walk alone, they 
will not so much. You would like to be alone, Alice ? ’ 

‘ Alone, or with you. I should like to be with you best.’ 

‘ But, perhaps, it would be better if you could be quite alone,’ 
persisted Madeline. 

‘ Oh, no ! that would not help me. I cannot say prayers 
out of my own head in that odd sort oi’ way ; I should think it 
wrong.’ 

‘ Papa told me one day,’ replied Madeline, ‘ that when I 
w’anted to find out short prayers, I should look for them in the 
Psalms. If you were to take your Prayer Book out, they would 
not say anything to you, because they would fancy you were 
trying to get your Psalm perfect for Sunday. 

* But I don’t know where to look for the verses,’ said Alice. 

‘ Don’t you ? there are a great many all through the Psalms ; 
and there are some especially which Mrs Carter was talking to 
us about the other day ; what she called the penitential Psalms. 
Don’t you recollect ? Little Ellen could not pronounce the 
word rightly.’ 

‘ Yes, I remember,’ answered Alice : ‘ but I could not say 
such words as those, you know, Maddy, because they would not 
be true for me. I am very sorry — very sorry indeed ; but I 
don’t think I am as sorry as those Psalms.’ 

‘ The day papa talked to Ruth and me about the Psalms,’ 
continued Madeline, ‘ he said that they were meant to show 
people what they ought to feel.’ 

‘ But I don’t feel,’ interrupted Alice. 

‘ Papa said we could not use them all, only parts,’ continued 
Madeline ; ‘ but he thought when we had done anything very 
wrong, if we were to read some of them over — not all the peni- 
tential Psalms, but others too — they would make us think more 
how dreadful it was to do wrong ; and then we might choose 
out the verses we could say, and make little prayers of them. 
He mentioned three particularly. Don’t you think, Alice, if 
you were to tell them all that you want to read, and were to go 
away by yourself, you could just trj’- ? ’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


305 

‘ I don^t know ; they would come and ask me what I was 
doing/ replied Alice. 

‘ But I should say, I wished to be quiet and read.^ 

‘ Then they will come and peep, and call out loud that it is a 
Prayer Book.' 

‘ Perhaps they will ; I should not like that myself ; but, 
Alice, it won’t hurt you if they do ; and I daresay they will let 
you alone if you really ask them. I think I should begin.’ 

‘ Begin what V asked Alice. 

‘ Those three papa named. I will give you the list — the 
25th, and the 130th, and the 143d.’ 

‘ And read them through ’ said Alice. 

Yes, all through ; and afterwards pick out the verses, and 
just say them over again like prayers. Perhaps, Alice, you 
would not have such a heavy heart then.’ 

Alice gave a deep sigh. 

‘ r think I should like it,’ she said. ‘ I should like to do 
something grave ; I cannot laugh now. But how shall I man- 
age if they make fun of me ? ’ 

‘ Tell them you are reading because you like it, and walk up 
and down, and don’t talk to them, and then, perhaps, they will 
leave off. But, Alice, you need not be so much afraid now, 
because Clara is not here, and Miss Barnard will be in the 
garden.’ 

‘ Miss Barnard ! I forgot !’ exclaimed Alice. ‘ She will 
scold if we are not out. Maddy, give me your Prayer Book and 
the list.’ 

‘ It is written on the first leaf,’ replied Madeline. ‘ I marked 
the Psalms down in pencil the very day papa talked about them.’ 

Alice seized the Prayer Book, hid it under a lesson book, and 
carried both with her into the garden ; and before Madeline 
\vent up-stairs to her sister, she watched her from the window 
pacing the sidewalk alone. Madeline called to Janet Harding, 
who was passing at the moment, and said — 

‘ I have a favour to ask of you, Janet. Will you tiy and not 
let Alice be teased .? She says she wants to read by herself, 
and she is afraid you will all interrupt her ; but you will keep 
the rest away if you can, won’t you 1 ’ 

Janet promised willingly ; she was always ready to please 
Madeline. 

‘ But you w'on’t say anything about it, or tell them that I have 
spoken to you,’ continued Madeline. 

U 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


306 

Jaiiet again promised, though she. looked at Alice with some 
surprise and curiosity. Madeline nodded to Alice as she caught 
her eye when she came along the walk, and then, secure in 
having provided one champion at least for Alice in case of 
annoyance, ran up-stairs to Ruth. 

For a whole hour Madeline and Ruth were together in the 
drawing-room, Ruth lying on the sofa, Madeline sitting on a 
little stool by her side. Ruth said she was not better, and she 
did not look better. Her complexion was still pale, though her 
cheek was flushed, and there were dark shadows under the eyes. 
Madeline thought her ill ; but there was something strange in 
the illness ; something which had altered Ruth very much. 
Ruth was rather subject to headache, especially when she was 
anxious or excited. This seemed like a common headache ; at 
least, Ruth did not complain more than usual. Still she was 
different ; or was it that everything was different ? that the 
mystery in the house made even Ruth mysterious ? It might be 
so ; but from whatever cause, Madeline felt a restraint with her 
sister during that hour’s conversation, which was new and 
painful to her. 

They talked almost entirely upon one subject — that is, Made- 
line talked ; Ruth only said, ‘Yes,’ and ‘ No,’ and sometimes 
turned away with a look of weariness. Madeline was full of 
the events of the morning, and the conduct of Alice. ‘ I love 
Alice now,’ she said, ‘more, a great deal more than ever. I dare- 
say she did not mean any harm about the money ; she would 
have repaid it in the holidays.’ 

‘ Yes, perhaps so ;’ and Ruth said no more. 

‘ Dear Ruth ! I am tiring you ; but I want so much to know 
what you think about it ; whether you don’t call AHce very good- 
natured for not letting me be blamed ; and whether you are not 
sure that Lady Catharine would be veiy pleased if she knew it.’ 

‘ I don’t know, perhaps so, she might.’ 

‘ Might, Ruth ! but I am certain of it. You know if she had 
not spoken, I should have been in a dreadful scrape. Mrs Carter 
said she was afraid for me ; and she was so kind to Alice after- 
wards, and forgave her quite, and told her what to do to take 
care another time, only she said one dreadful thing ; that letting 
another person be accused unjustly and being silent, was really 
bearing false witness against our neighbour ; and she said that 
was what Alice had done, and then she spoke so very seriously. 
But I cannot understand that Alice really was as bad as that : 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


307 


being silent does not seem like speaking ; only Mrs Carter 
declares it is. What do you think No answer. ‘ And, Ruth,' 
added Madeline, ‘what will Mary Vernon say when she comes 
back.?' 

Yes, what would Mary Vernon say ? Ruth had many times 
in the day thought of that ; Mary Vernon was to return late 
that evening. How much she would have to hear ! 

‘ Have they searched all the house.?' Ruth managed to say 
in one of Madeline's pauses, speaking in a faint voice. 

‘ I don’t know, but I think Dawson was going into the school- 
room. I am sure the book must have slipped down. No one 
would let such a fuss be made who knew where it was.' Ruth 
lay motionless — even her breathing seemed for the instant 
stopped ; she turned her head from side to side as if in great 
pain. 

‘Janet Harding thinks that Clara will be sent away,' con- 
tinued Madeline. ‘ She says that a sister of hers — one of Janet's 
sisters, I mean — was at a school where something of the kind 
happened, and one of the girls was sent away directly. Clara is 
alone in Mrs Carter’s dressing-room, and Harriet and Florence 
are in her bedroom; and I don’t know where Justine is. Jessie 
thinks that Dawson was told to carry up some dinner to her, 
but I think she must be gone home. Oh, dear ! how I wish the 
book was found.' 

‘ Madeline,' said Ruth, ‘ some one is calling you.’ 

Madeline listened, ‘ I cannot hear any one ; but there is 
talking; — hark! yes, Mrs Carter is asking for me ;' and Made- 
line instantly ran down-stairs. 

Ruth trembled like an aspen leaf. That summons might 
denote a discovery. Then there was no further prospect of de- 
lay. Confession or sin lay before her. But had she not sinned 
already? was it nothing to have disregarded her mother’s wishes ; 
to have concealed her fault ; to have determined upon allowing 
others to go on in an evil course unchecked ; to have caused 
pain and suspicion to Mrs Carter, and annoyance, to speak in 
the lightest terms, to a whole household .? Was it nothing to 
have acted a lie ; to have pretended ignorance by silence, though 
she would not have dared to say it in words ? All these things 
had Ruth done ; to this extent had she sinned, and because of 
these sins, because she could not humble herself to own them, 
she now stood upon the brink of one sin more. 

Madeline spoke to Mrs Carter, and went into the school-room. 


3o8 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Ruth heard nothing more for several minutes. A door opened, 
she caught a sound of sobs ! It closed again. Ruth rose and 
walked to the head of the stairs. The voices she heard were 
in Mrs Carter’s study. In the school-room there seemed a 
general lull. Presently Dawson came up the stairs — she passed 
quickly, so that there was no time to ask what was going on, 
even if Ruth had found courage to do so. It seemed better to 
go back to the drawing-room, yet Ruth still stood near the door, 
which was ajar. Footsteps came slowly down the staircase. 
Harriet Trevelyan was first, then Florence, Clara, and Justine 
Le Vergnier. Ruth had one glimpse of their features as they 
went by, and could see the change in all. Even Clara Manners 
for once seemed subdued. ‘ Dawson,’ said Ruth, catching hold 
of the servant’s dress as she approached her, ‘ wait one minute, 
I want to know. Have they — have they found the book ?’ 

‘ Why ! Miss Clifford, how you frightened me ! I did not 
know any one was there. Yes, it is found.’ 

‘Where?’ was upon Ruth’s lips, but she could not bring 
herself to put the question. 

Dawson looked at her with compassion. ‘ Your head must 
be very bad. Miss Clifford ; you look so deadly pale : can’t I 
fetch you something ? ’ 

‘ No, thank you, Dawson ; I am better. What does Mrs 
Carter want with them all ?’ 

‘ Indeed, Miss Clifford, I can’t tell much about it. The book 
was found in Miss Harding’s bottom drawer, where she keeps 
her cloaks. We missed it once, and my mistress made us go 
through the drawers again. But I must not stop ; are you sure 
I can’t get anything for you ? ’ 

One thing there was which Ruth wanted ; — one thing — but 
no earthly power could give it her. It was a humble spirit. 
She turned away from Dawson, and went back to the sofa to 
cry bitterly and think. 

This was Ruth’s last moment for repentance and action. She 
felt that it was so, and her heart was softened. A sudden im- 
pulse of wretchedness induced her once more to go to the head 
of the stairs ; but the action was not the result of firm resolu- 
tion ; it was an effort made without prayer, tmsting in her own 
strength, and it failed. The parlour door opened for an instant, 
and Ruth, in an agony of causeless alarm, rushed back to her 
former position, to await whatever might occur. 

The weariness, the bitterness, the sad sinking of the heart, 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


309 


the shame of that next hour may not well be described. There 
are those who have felt it, who have sunk under a similar 
temptation, and suffered a like trial. For them there needs no 
description. There are others who as yet are ignorant of it. 
May God grant them such a portion of His grace, such an 
assistance from the Spirit of Truth and Holiness, that they may 
never learn its misery by experience ! 

When an hour had gone by, Madeline re-appeared, and with 
ner came Mrs Carter. The brightness of the afternoon had 
passed away ; a shadow seemed stealing, over all things ; the 
room looked cheerless ; the sounds of bustle and amusement 
which usually filled the house had ceased. Mrs Carter’s steady 
tread, her anxious, restrained expression of countenance, Made- 
line’s first eager glance, and immediately afterwards her down- 
cast look, and the tears which stood in her eyes, frightened 
Ruth. Mrs Carter walked up to the sofa, and sat down by 
Ruth, without speaking. Madeline stood. 

‘ Sit down, my dear,’ said Mrs Carter, in a tone w'hich few 
would have discovered to be full of agitation. She took Ruth’s 
cold hand, and felt her pulse; it was rapid and weak, and Mrs 
Carter stooped to kiss her forehead, and pity her. Then she 
said : ‘ Ruth, we are in sad perplexity ; have you heard 

‘No one has been here since Madeline went away,’ replied 
Ruth, evading the answer. 

‘ We have found the missing book,’ continued Mrs Carter. 
‘Where, you wall scarcely imagine : in Janet’s drawer.’ 

Ruth’s heart throbbed till she was faint, yet she summoned 
strength to ask ; ‘ Who found it?’ 

‘ Dawson found it,’ replied Mrs Carter. ‘ She had searched 
the drawer before, but overlooked it.’ 

Mrs Carter paused, and Ruth’s eyes closed for an instant, for 
she dared not look upon the friend she was deceiving. 

‘Still, I am not satisfied,’ continued Mrs Carter; ‘Janet 
denies all knowledge of the book ; she could not tell even its 
title ; her look and manner were those of perfect innocence ; I 
can scarcely distrust her. Yet who else could have put it 
there ? ’ 

‘ Dawson says it might have come there by accident,’ Made- 
line ventured to observe ; ‘ she does not think Janet would tell 
a story.’ 

‘ Neither do I, Madeline,’ replied Mrs Carter; ‘at least, I am 
very unwilling to believe it. Janet has many faults, but I do not 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


310 

think she is insincere. It is possible that the book may have 
been placed there accidentally with the cloak. I need not ask, 
Ruth, if you can help me to find out the truth. I am certain 
you would if you could.’ 

Ruth’s answer was scarcely heard. 

Mrs Carter looked very anxious, but there was no suspicion in 
her face; she bent fondly ovei Ruth, smoothing her forehead, 
and remarking to Madeline, * that it would not do to tease her 
with questions till she was better.’ 

Ruth could not smile, she could not even feel grateful, 
but she roused herself and said, ‘She was sure that Janet 
must be innocent.’ A long sigh followed, and Ruth turned 
away her face that the shame of her heart might not be read 
in it. 

Mrs Carter sat for some minutes in thought. Presently, she 
turned to Ruth and again felt her pulse. The cold hand was now 
burning. ‘ We must have advice for you to-morrow, my child, if 
you are not better.’ 

Ruth endeavoured to force a smile. She said that she hoped 
to be quite well to-morrow. 

‘ It is the excitement,’ continued Mrs Carter ; ‘ every one has 
been excited to-day. Poor Janet ! I never should have suspected 
her.’ 

‘Janet always spoke truth to us,’ said Madeline. ‘ Did she 
not, Ruth.?’ 

Ruth bent her head instead of replying. 

‘ We shall see,’ replied Mrs Carter. ‘ I am not decided 
that she is guilty. I cannot feel to her as I do to the others 
concerned in this sad business. My dear children, I am only 
thankful the disappointment has not been in you.’ Mrs Carter 
once more kissed them both, and left them together. 

Ruth watched till the door closed behind Mrs Carter, and then 
she seized Madeline’s hand, and exclaimed : ‘ Janet will not be 
punished.’ 

Madeline looked at her in astonishment. ‘ She will not be 
punished unless something more is proved. No one thinks she 
has anything to do with it.’ 

‘ What can they think, then .? ’ asked Ruth, whilst her voice 
grew husky. 

‘ They think it was an accident ; some of the drawers were 
cleared out the other day, and the cloaks earned into the closet 
in the back room, where Clara says she always kept the books ; 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


311 

and Mrs Carter supposes it may have been taken up by accident 
when they were replaced. Dawson says so too.’ 

‘And what makes them so sure about Janet?’ 

‘ Her manner, a great deal. She did not blush, nor cry, but 
she looked so very surprised ; and Clara and they all protested 
they had never mentioned the matter to her ; and no one had 
ever seen her look at any strange books down -stairs ; she was 
always sitting in the school-room at her desk ; and at night we 
must have known it, because we were in the same room. I am 
sure she had nothing to do with it.’ 

Ruth heaved a sigh of relief, yet a sharp pang of conscience 
accompanied it. 

‘ One reason why I am sure of Janet,’ continued Madeline, 
‘ is, that she is so strict about religion and those things. Clara 
used to say she was a hypocrite, but I never thought her so ; 
and Alice thinks she is in earnest, though it makes her angry to 
hear her quote texts.’ 

‘ Her papa and mamma seem very particular,’ said Ruth, 
forcing herself to make some remark. 

‘ Yes, and very odd ; and I should not like them much,’ con- 
tinued Madeline, ‘but still they are good, and Janet is more 
careful about her prayers and the Bible than almost any one ; 
that is why I never laugh at her. You don’t think she took the 
book, do you, Ruth?’ 

Ruth started up without answering. 

< Where are you going ? What is the matter ?’ asked Made- 
line, half alarmed. 

Ruth stopped, and returned to the sofa. ‘ My head aches 
very much,’ she said. 

‘ And you want to go to bed ? I will ask if you may.’ 

‘ Stay one instant,’ said Ruth; ‘where are Clara and Justine?’ 

‘Justine is gone. Mrs Carter sent her with Dawson, and 
wrote a note to Monsieur Le Vergnier. She is never to be here 
again ; never, Mrs Carter said twice.’ 

‘ And Clara ? ’ asked Ruth. 

‘ She is to sleep alone in Mary Vernon’s room to-night. Mrs 
Carter said something worse of her than of any one. I think 
she means that her papa shall be sent for, to take her away in 
disgrace, but I did not quite understand. Mrs Carter was quite 
kind in comparison to Florence and Harriet ; that is, she was 
very grave and vexed ; but she did not say she should punish 
them much, and they do seem very sorry. I don’t think they 
will ever go on so badly again.’ 


312 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


^ Mrs Carter is ver)' kind/ said Ruth, in a low, musing tone. 

‘ Oh, yes ! so exceedingly kind, so wishing that it should all 
be happy and right again. If it were only quite settled about 
Janet, I think it would be.’ 

‘ Janet ! ’ repeated Ruth, as if speaking to herself. 

^ Should you like to see her ? ’ asked Madeline. 

Ruth shrank as if a serpent had stung her. 

‘ No, no ; I can’t — I don’t wish it. Madeline, pray don’t 
and more calmly Ruth added, ‘ Mrs Carter is busy now.’ 

‘ Rather ; but I will ask about your going to bed, and perhaps 
she will come and wish you good night.’ 

^ I don’t want it — my head — if I can only go to bed,’ said 
Ruth. 

‘ Well, you shall, dear. Mrs Carter will be sure to say yes.’ 

Madeline’s light, little step scarcely sounded as she ran down- 
stairs. Ruth heard her cheerful voice when she spoke to some 
one whom she met at the bottom. She heard her say — 

‘ Janet, dear, don’t fret. Mrs Carter tries to believe you, and 
I do quite. We shall find out by and by.’ 

Janet’s melancholy tone was all that caught Ruth’s ear, until 
a few sentences more had passed between them, but Janet’s last 
words were — 

‘ Give my love to Ruth, and tell her I am very sorry her head 
is so bad.’ 


CHAPTER XXVlir. 

’”PHE greater number of persons, whether old or young, think 
J- but little of their own faults or of the faults of others. They 
do not see the ends to which their actions are tending ; they 
imagine it certain that all must be right at last, and so they hear 
of evil and speak of it, perhaps sigh over it, or condemn it, and 
then go away to their occupations and their pleasures, and for- 
get it. But there are some events which must make an impres- 
sion upon the minds even of the youngest and most thoughtless. 
The departure of Clara Manners was of this description ; it was 
full of mystery. No one of Mrs Carter’s pupils saw her after 
she was sent back to her room, when the book was discovered 
in Janet Harding’s drawer. No one knew exactly what was to 
become of her. Some thought that she was to be sent home 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


313 


directly ; others that she was to wait till they all went. Madeline 
stated her belief that it was Mrs Carter’s intention to have her 
first taken to the house of her aunt, a lady who lived very hear 
London. The conjectures were made early the following morn- 
ing ; they were set at rest before the close of the day. 

Mrs Carter was absent from the school-room during the early 
lessons, and hurried away from the dinner-table, as a carriage 
drove into the sweep, even before a visitor was announced. 
Miss Barnard’s orders were very strict that no one was to leave 
the room. And they sat there silent and listening. Conversa- 
tion went on in the drawing-room above them for some little 
time ; there was an opening and shutting of doors, and a heavy 
tread on the stairs, as if two persons were carrying down a 
trunk. At last the drawing-room door was heard to open, and 
the voices became more distinct. Mrs Carter spoke, and a 
stranger answered. It was impossible to hear what was said 
then, but Mrs Carter’s words were clearer as they approached 
the drawing-room door. She addressed Clara by name, and 
bade her good-bye ; but the tone — how different it was from 
the expression of fond maternal kindness which usually called 
them all ‘ dear children ! ’ Whether Clara’s proud feelings 
were touched none could tell ; but she must have hurried in 
shame to the carriage, for it seemed but an instant before its 
wheels rolled over the sweep, and, like a prisoner carried away 
to punishment, she was taken from them never to return. Mrs 
Carter came back to the parlour witli a very grave countenance. 
It was with real difficulty that she said to them, ‘Clara Manners 
is gone. Her aunt has taken charge of her for the present. 
She sent a message of remembrance to you all.’ Mrs Carter 
paused as if desirous to discover the effect of her intelligence. 

' No one ventured to reply or thank her. Ruth, who at other 
times was the first to speak, dropped her handkerchief on the 
floor and stooped for it. Her face was not clearly seen until 
Mrs Carter said — 

‘ You may go to the school-room ; all, except Harriet, Flor- 
ence, and Janet.’ 

Ruth went with her companions to the school-room, and 
busied herself with her books. The struggle that was passing 
in her mind was terrible. It was more than she could bear, 
and her resolution was taken. Should Janet be punished she 
would instantly confess. Alas ! even then Ruth’s decision was 
not that of true repentance ; it was not the result of self-ex- 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


3H 

amination and humility ; it was but the sudden impulse of a 
goading conscience, and when Mrs Carter came back, and 
announced to the whole school that Harriet and Florence were 
forgiven, and that Janet’s assertion was accepted, from the 
doubt whether the book had not been mislaid by accident, and 
in the absence of more positive proof against her, Ruth sank 
back to her former state of mind, and said to herself that con- 
fession was uncalled for ; the fault that she had committed was 
trifling — it would never be repeated ; Janet was not now injured 
by her silence ; and confession would only lower her influence 
in the school, vex Mrs Carter, and distress her parents. Her 
future conduct should entirely make amends for any error of 
which she had been guilty. 

Poor Ruth ! she was storing up bitter hours for herself. She 
did not remember what she had so often been taught, that no 
goodness of her own, even could the remainder of her life be 
perfect, could atone for the smallest sin in the sight of God. 
Forgiven indeed all may be, even the worst of sinners, for the 
sake of the Saviour, who bore the punishment of all sin ; but 
before we can obtain this forgiveness there must be the humble 
acknowledgment of guilt, both to God and our fellow-men, if 
our offence has been against both ; that acknowledgment from 
which Ruth in the pride of her heart still strove to escape. 

And this was the state of affairs on the morning of the 1 5th 
of June ; the holiday, the election day — the day which Ruth had 
once thought of as far off, yet earnestly to be desired ; the day 
which now she dreaded, so as she had never dreaded any other 
day of her life. It was strange to see how soon all things had 
in a great measure returned to their former state. Clara’s name 
was not mentioned, even Justine le Vergnier was not openly 
regretted. It seemed as if disagreeable recollections were by 
common consent to be banished, and if any secretly sighed for 
Clara’s high spirits or Justine’s amusing anecdotes, they did not 
choose to do more than express a passing regret. The adorning 
of the room and the preparations for the day’s ceremony had 
taken the place of every other idea. 

‘ Mary Vernon ! Where is Mary ? we must have her,' was 
the general cry in the school-room after breakfast. Mary had 
returned late on the previous evening ; even Ruth had not seen 
her then. 

‘ Mary is hearing the history from Mrs Carter,’ said Fanny 
Wilson. ‘ I know Mrs Carter sent for her to the study.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


315 


An uncomfortable pause followed. Florence and Harriet 
began talking about some coloured paper flowers with which 
the chair of the judge was to be decorated ; and Alice whispered 
to Madeline, that Mary would not speak to her now, she was sure. 

‘O Alice! how can you think so?’ exclaimed Madeline. 
* Mary never was hard to any one in all her life ; and, besides, 
Mrs Carter is not going to mention anything about you. She 
said she would not.’ 

‘ I wish I could be sure,’ said Alice. 

^ I am quite, and I will ask Ruth.’ 

Ruth was sitting in a comfortable chair by the window : it 
was open ; the fresh air blew pleasantly upon her face, the birds 
sang sweetly in her ear, her pale face had a tinge of colour 
upon it ; she smiled when her sister came near, and Madeline 
thought that she was happy. Alice stood at a little distance 
and watched her. Before Madeline had finished what she had 
to^say, Jessie O’Neile ran up and interrupted her. A friend of 
her mamma’s, who lived near, had just sent her some early 
strawberries ; Jessie did not care about herself, she only thought 
of her dear Ruth, and now she pressed her to eat them all, for 
she had brought them on purpose. Ruth accepted the present 
gratefully, and Jessie stood by delighted for a short time, and 
presently went away to fetch a footstool. Two more of the 
party came back with Jessie. They had been preparing ever- 
greens and flowers, and had made up a pretty little nosegay, 
which they thought Ruth would like ; and they wished to con- 
sult her about a crown which they had an idea of making for 
the judge. These drew others to the same spot, and, one by 
one, nearly all collected round Ruth at the open window, in- 
terested about her, consulting her, making her the first person. 
Still Alice stood alone, and looked on. ‘ Delightful ! here is 
Mary Vernon,’ she heard Madeline exclaim ; and as Mary came 
in, a way was opened for her, and a seat provided for her by 
Ruth’s side ; and Alice thought that the kiss and inquiry which 
followed would never have been bestowed upon her. Mary 
had scarcely had time to speak to Ruth before ; but since 
breakfast she had received an account of all that had transpired 
from Mrs Carter, and with it of Ruth’s indisposition ; and 
both Mrs Carter and Mary imagined it possible that the head- 
ache of which Ruth still complained might be increased, if not 
caused by the painful excitement into which the school had 
been thrown. 


3i6 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


‘ Should you like to be Ruth, Alice ?' said a quiet, melancholy 
voice, close at Aliceas side. 

^ Janet ! you quite startled me ; I thought you were in the next 
room.’ 

' Why don’t you help, Alice ?’ continued Janet. 

' They can do without me,’ replied Alice, ‘ now Mary is 
come.’ 

‘ But I thought you cared so much, and were taking such 
pains. What makes you give it up ?’ 

‘ Because I am not wanted ; that is all.’ 

‘ They don’t seem to think of any one but Ruth,’ said Janet. 

^ No, but Ruth deserves it.’ 

There was a heavy, weary sigh from Janet. ‘ Mamma did not 
know what school was when she sent me here,’ she said ; ‘ it 
makes me a great deal worse than I was before.’ 

‘ Worse,’ repeated Alice ; ‘ what do you mean .?’ 

‘ I hate it all,’ replied Janet ; ‘ so would you if you were like 
me.’ 

‘ I cannot understand, Janet, you are so very odd; whiit is 
the matter 

‘ Ruth is very happy,’ continued Janet ; ‘ every one loves her 
and praises her.’ 

‘ They praise her because she is good,’ replied Alice ; ‘ I 
should like to be good too.’ 

‘ But I am not sure mamma would think Ruth good,’ pursued 
Janet ; ‘ yet they all put her up, and put me down.’ 

‘ O Janet ! how silly ; no one thinks of putting you down.’ 

‘ Mrs Carter does,’ said Janet : ‘ she never suspected Ruth, 
and she did me.’ 

‘ The drawer was yours, that was the reason ; Mrs Carter 
has quite forgotten it all.’ 

‘ Has she? No, Alice, she does not forget; none of them 
do. They will never make me judge, if I live here for ever.’ 

‘ Then you are envious ! ’ exclaimed Alice ; * and of Ruth ! ’ 

‘ I do not think I am envious ; but I would rather be Ruth 
than any person in all tlie world.’ 

‘ Rather than Mary Vernon?’ 

‘ Yes, because she has no mother, and no sister, and Ruth has 
everything. Look at them all now, and the fruit, and the flowers. 
And this afternoon she will be judge, and first of all.’ 

‘ I do not care about those things,’ said Alice ; ‘ I would rather 
Ruth should have them.’ 


-LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


317 


* I never knew I cared till I came to school/ said Janet; * but 
school makes me wicked. And you are like the rest, Alice ; you 
all look down upon me.’ 

‘ If you mean about the book, Janet,’ exclaimed Alice, with 
some degree of impatience, ‘ you are quite mistaken. I do not 
believe you had anything to do with it.’ 

‘ Really ! upon your honour ? ’ asked Janet. 

‘ Yes, really, upon my honour ; what makes you doubt .?’ 

‘ I Cannot help doubting,’ answered Janet, ‘ I am so unhappy; 
and now they are all cheerful again, it is worse. If I could only 
be Ruth ; she has everything.’ 

Alice was sorry for Janet, but there was something in her tone 
and manner which irritated her ; a whining fretfulness, with 
which it was difficult to sympathise. Her old dislike revived 
strongly, and she went away hastily, leaving Janet more con- 
vinced by her manner that she was still suspected, than she was 
satisfied by her words. Mary Vernon having finished what she 
had to say to Ruth, was looking round for some one else. Her 
eye caught Janet’s, and she smiled, but Janet did not smile in 
return. Mary looked at Ruth, as if asking for an explanation ; 
and, breaking away from those who were pressing round seek- 
ing her advice and assistance, she went to speak to Janet. 
Alice was in her way as she passed, and there was a cordial 
shake of the hand, which, with a few kind words, made Alice 
return to her companions happier. If Mary knew how wrong 
she had been, it was evident that she did not despise her. 

‘ Ruth, dear, do help us about this wreath,’ said Fanny 
Wilson ; Mt is to go round the mirror at the bottom of the 
room.’ Ruth took no notice, and Madeline touched her to 
make her attend. Ruth started and shuddered ; but she re- 
covered herself, and gave her opinion. Then again her eye 
rested upon Mary and Janet, as if drawn by some power v\>hich 
could not be resisted. 

‘ Janet thinks she is suspected, still,’ said Alice, watching 
Ruth’s glance ; ‘ I hope Mary will put the idea out of her head. 
It makes her more tiresome than ever.’ 

* You should not call her tiresome,’ said Madeline ; ^ should 
she, Ruth ? We should be just the same if we had been sus- 
pected, I daresay ; at least, I should.’ 

A conversation followed about suspicion — the painfulness of 
unjust suspicion — being the cause of it ; during which Ruth 
pulled to pieces the evergreens which lay near her, and once or 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


31S 

twice made some indifferent remark, and at length confessed to 
Madeline that her head was beginning to ache more, and she 
should like to go into the garden. 

Mary Vernon’s conversation with Janet was a long one, and 
as it went on, Ruth walked up and down the terrace with 
Madeline, in a state of great nervous anxiety. But though 
Mary and Janet spoke much of Ruth, it was not with any allu- 
sion to the lost book. Janet was soon satisfied, as satisfied as 
with her peevish disposition she ever could be, that Mary 
Vernon was quite willing to believe her word. She owned that 
she was pleased; contented, she said, with Mary’s confidence; 
but the sad, low, drawling tone was not very like contentment; 
and when Mary proposed to her to go to the others and assist 
in ornamenting the room, Janet declined. 

‘ Why.?’ inquired Mary. ‘ If you are sure they are as fond 
of you as before, why should you keep aloof?’ 

‘ They are not fond of me,’ replied Janet; ‘they care only 
for Ruth ; she is first with every one.’ 

‘ But, Janet, dear, you must not be so envious.’ 

‘ I do not want to do any harm to Ruth,’ said Janet; ‘ I only 
wish I could be in her place.’ 

‘ You don’t care for the fruit and the flowers, I am sure,’ 
said Maiy, laughing. 

‘ No, not for anything in particular ; but all — she is so much 
better off than I am, and I don’t see why she should be.’ 

Mary looked pained, and after a little delay, said gently, 
‘ Indeed, Janet, that feeling is wrong. I think your mamma 
must have taught you that it is ; for you say she was always 
talking to you about the Bible, and your duty.’ 

Janet regarded Mary as she said this with more interest, and 
a sense of sympathy. ‘ I wonder whether you think about the 
Bible as much as mamma does,’ she said. ‘ I fancied just now 
that there was no one here who thought about it, they all 
seemed so wicked ; and whenever I say anything out of the 
Bible, they laugh or turn away, even Madeline does ; that 
shows they dislike it.’ 

‘ Not quite,’ replied Mary, with a smile; ‘only they do not 
like your repeating it.’ 

, ‘ It is just the same ; it is because they are not good.’ 

‘ Perhaps even if we were good, we should not always like it,’ 
answered Mary ; ‘ because it does not always suit what we are 
doing. The Bible words are sacred, and when we mix them up 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


319 


with common words, even if there is no harm in the common 
words, they do not seem fitting. I know many good people 
who can scarcely bring themselves to name the Name of God, 
or our Blessed Saviour in general conversation, because they 
feel so much reverence.^ 

‘ That is not at all what I have been accustomed to,’ replied 
Janet ; ‘ and a great many laugh.’ 

‘ Not those who are serious-minded. The careless ones 
laugh, as they would at everything connected with religion; the 
others are silent, I know, I have watched them often. But, 
Janet, will you let me say one thing to you. Don’t you think 
it is better whilst we are young, and when we have no right to 
put ourselves forward, to think more about doing right, setting 
a good example, than talking, even if we are quite in earnest ? 
It seems to me that it is safer.’ 

‘ I don’t know what you mean by safer,’ said Janet. 

‘ Less likely to make us conceited and criticising ; because 
when our whole hearts are set upon doing our duty, we see so much 
evil in ourselves, that we learn to judge charitably of others.’ 

‘ I am much more wicked since I came to school,’ observed 
Janet, in a musing tone. 

‘ And what has made you so ? ’ asked Mary. 

Janet’s reply was quick and earnest. 

‘ The things I see make me so. They none of them care for 
all that I -have cared for, and they dislike me and ridicule me, 
and they think only of Ruth ; she has everything she wishes. 
I would exchange with her this instant.’ 

‘ Hush ! Janet ; pray take care. Such a thought cannot be 
right. We are told not to desire anything which is our neigh- 
bour’s.’ 

‘ Not houses, and sheep, and cows, and those things,’ replied 
Janet. 

‘ Anything,’ again repeated Mary ; ‘ we are not to desire 
anything, not any change at all, except that of becoming better. 
And, Janet, sometimes we know that persons’ ignorant wishes 
have been heard, and they have been miserable.’ 

‘ I should not be miserable if I were Ruth,’ replied Janet. 

‘ Indeed — indeed, you do not know what you are saying, 
Janet. You cannot tell what you are wishing.’ 

Ruth came in from the garden at this instant ; she looked 
tired, and Mary’s glance was an anxious one. 

< Ruth is not well,’ she remarked, turning again to Janet 


320 LANETON PARSONAGE, 

‘ She will be better soon ; I should not care for that/ replied 
Janet. 

‘ And she looks grave — sad, quite,’ continued Mary. 

‘ She has no cause for it,’ said Janet. 

‘ She may have things to make her unhappy which we do not 
know of,’ added Mary. 

‘ She cannot have as much as I have. Still I would be her.’ 

Mary said no more. She was called away abruptly, and the 
conversation ended ; but before the close of that day Janet had 
received a lasting warning against the folly of her blind and dis- 
contented wishes. 

As the morning hour wore on, the two rooms gradually as- 
sumed a different aspect. The doors between them were kept 
open ; the desks and tables were placed against the wall, so as 
to be entirely out of the way ; all the stray books were put into 
the closet, and the benches, chairs, and stools were ranged in 
rows at the bottom of the outer room. Near the centre door- 
way was a round table, ornamented with two jars of flowers, 
and holding in the middle a china vase, into which the papers 
containing the votes were to be dropped. Two arm-chairs 
were provided for Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard on each side 
of the table, and at the top of the inner room was a high seat, 
or, as it was called, a throne, decked with evergreens and 
flowers, and placed under a canopy prettily contrived by the 
aid of some bright- coloured shawls and bouquets of flowers. 
There were evergreens also about the room, flowers on the 
mantelpiece, a wreath made especially for Mrs Carter’s picture, 
which hung over it ; and, before the preparations were quite 
ended, room was found on one of the side-tables for some wine, 
and cake, and fruit, sent by Mrs Carter’s desire, that they might 
in due form wish health and prosperity to the new judge. 

‘ Ruth, we must just ornament the fruit and cake dishes, and 
then we shall be quite ready. Does it not look nice ? ’ said 
Alice, coming up to her. 

Ruth smiled a faint, sickly smile. 

* And all for you,’ continued Alice, not noticing her manner ; 
‘ it is quite certain. You must be well and enjoy it. How is 
your head now ? ’ 

‘ Better,’ Ruth said, shortly ; but the answer was not honest. 

‘Hark ! there is the dinner bell? Is everything ready? 
exclaimed Madeline. 

‘ Everything except the flowers round the dishes.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


321 

Alice, Madeline, and Fanny Wilson promised to come in 
directly dinner was over, and arrange them. 

‘ I don’t want any dinner,’ said Ruth, in an under-tone, to 
her sister, ‘ I would much rather stay here.’ 

‘ O Ruth ! are you so very unwell ? Perhaps we had better 
not have all the fuss. What shall we do ? ’ Madeline turned 
to Mary Vernon before Ruth could interpose to prevent her. 

‘ Ruth is ill, Mary, she cannot go in to dinner.’ 

Mary appeared vexed and uneasy. 

‘ Dear Ruth, why did you not say so before ? The noise has 
been too much for you.’ 

‘ No, not ill — not ill at all,’ answered Ruth, and she stood 
up and walked into the dining-room. 

Mary did not offer to go with her. Some painful idea seemed 
to have struck her, and she lingered till the last. Her place 
was filled up ; the absence of a few days had made it seem 
natural to be without her, and when some one offered to move, 
Mary declined, and took her seat at the corner end of the table 
on the opposite side to Ruth. 

^ My dear Mary, you have as bad an appetite as Ruth,’ said 
Mrs Carter. ‘ I must have a physician for you both.’ 

Mary smiled, and began to eat, but from time to time her eyes 
were raised stealthily to Ruth, as if she would not be seen watch- 
ing, and yet desired to know all that Ruth was doing. It was a 
short dinner, and when the cloth was removed, Alice, F anny, and 
Madeline returned to the school-room ; the others were to remain 
where they were until summoned to the election of the judge. 
Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard went away also. Janet Harding 
looked wistfully after Alice, who was the last to leave the parlour. 

‘ Would you like to go to the school-room, Janet t ’ said Mary, 
who was standing by Ruth’s chair. 

‘ I should like it, if they would have me,’ answered Janet. 

* They would like it, would they not, Ruth .? You can answer 
for Madeline.’ 

Ruth assented, but so feebly, that Janet was annoyed. 

‘ I did not mean to interfere,’ she said. ‘ I know quite well 
that Ruth is first, and is to have all things her own way.’ 

Ruth turned uneasily in her chair. 

‘ Say something that may soothe her, if you can,’ whispered 
Mary. 

Ruth’s lips moved, but that was all. 

* You would be glad for her to help, if it would please her?* 

pursued Mary. X 


322 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


* No, Mary,’ interrupted Janet, proudly ; ‘ Ruth does not want 
me to do anything for her ; she has a spite against me, like the 
others.’ 

‘ Oh ! nonsense, Janet. Do tell her, Ruth, how foolish it is 
to have such fancies.’ 

‘ Very foolish,’ repeated Ruth, mechanically. 

‘ But it is no nonsense,’ replied Janet. ‘ Ruth never troubles 
herself about me ; and she did not say a single word yesterday, 
and she has not to-day, about the book.’ 

‘ That must have been because she was not well, and did 
not think it necessary,’ said Mary. ‘ When you declared you 
knew nothing of it, she believed you at once. Was not that it, 
Ruth ? ’ 

Ruth’s hand trembled violently, as it rested on the arm of a 
sofa near. She drew the other over her face, but it did not serve 
her purpose of concealment. Mary saw that she was very much 
agitated. 

‘ What can be the matter ? Speak to me, Ruth ; just tell 
me,’ she said. 

Janet drew nearer, half in curiosity, half in alarm. 

Ruth motioned her back, and, in a broken voice, whispered 
— ‘ Mary, in pity keep her away ; I cannot bear it.’ 

‘ She is not well, Janet ; she will be better presently ; just 
ask Miss Barnard for her salts.’ 

‘ No, no ; I am well — quite well. Pray don’t go.’ 

Ruth looked up, her face pale as ashes, her lips quivering. 
Mary took her hand. 

‘ Ruth, you frighten me,’ she said. 

Ruth’s eyes were still fixed upon Janet. 

‘ If she would go away — if she would not stare at me ! Do 
make her go.’ 

Mary quietly begged that Janet would leave them to them- 
selves ; the fewer that were about Ruth the better, and Janet 
moved slowly away. 

‘ Is she gone ? ’ said Ruth, raising her head. 

‘ Yes, gone to the others. Are you better now ? What 
makes you feel so ill ? ’ 

‘ 111 ! — no, I don’t feel ill — not exactly — I can’t tell — Mary, 
what shall I do N and Ruth leaned her head upon Mary’s shoulder 
and gasped for breath. 

‘You must let me spgak.to Mrs Carter; I must stop the 
noise and bustle, dearest Ruth,’ said Mary, much frightened ; 
‘ you are not equal to it.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


323 


Ruth caught her hand, and held it very tight. * Mary, you 
will not — I could not bear it. It must all be, now,’ she added, 
in a low voice. 

‘ What must be, Ruth ? Are you really ill ? ’ Mary’s voice 
was earnest, full of deep anxiety. She looked steadfastly at 
Ruth, and their eyes met ; and then Ruth took away her hand, 
exclaiming, ‘ I am quite well, indeed, Mary. I can bear it all. 
They are ready, see.’ 

‘ Prepared ! all prepared ! ’ exclaimed Fanny Wilson, rushing 
into the room. ' Madeline came up to Ruth. ‘ We have such a 
comfortable seat for you, the old seat by the window, and we 
have put a cushion and a footstool. Dear Ruth, is your poor 
head better ? ’ 

‘ Leave her with me one minute, Madeline,’ said Mary Vernon, 
gravely. ‘ Ruth,’ she continued, as Madeline went aside, ‘ I do 
not think I am right in letting you go through all this excitement, 
and I cannot understand you. Is there anything you are keeping 
from me ? ’ 

Ruth shook like an aspen leaf, but made no reply. 

‘ Come ! you must come ! Mrs Carter is there, it is all ready,* 
cried Fanny. ‘ Mary and Ruth, what are you doing ? ’ 

The room was nearly empty, for the greater number hurried 
away at the first summons. Madeline had been sent for by 
Alice. Janet Harding remained. Ruth’s eye rested upon her 
wath an expression of intense pain. 

‘ Mrs Carter is quite ready,’ again called out some one, 
coming to the door. 

‘ Ruth, have you a secret ? are you ill ? Why will you make 
me so unhappy ? ’ said. Mary. 

Ruth was standing up ; she sat down again, and buried her 
face in her hands. 

‘ Is Mary Vernon here .?’ inquired Miss Barnard, entering 
the room. 

Mary glanced at Ruth imploringly, but her manner was in an 
instant changed ; all her self-command seem restored, and 
rising once more, she led the way into the school-room. The 
sight which presented itself was unusually gay and pretty. The 
benches were filled; and Mrs Carter and Miss Barnard were 
seated by the round table, the brilliant colours of the canopy 
were arranged with great taste, and amongst the dark ever- 
greens shone many of the earliest and most delicate summer 
flowers, now touched by the glancing, flickering rays of th© 


324 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


afternoon sun. All seemed glad, pure, and bright. Ruth’s 
head was erect, her step was firm, as she entered the room. If 
there was an uneasiness in the glance of her eyes, and some- 
thing forced in her manner, the signs were too trifling to be 
generally remarked. But Mary’s face caught the attention of 
several. A whisper went round, it met Ruth’s ear. It was 
said that Mary was sad, that she was thinking of Clara and 
Justine. Madeline remarked to Ruth, that it appeared wrong 
entirely to forget them, and Ruth pretended not to hear, and 
remained silent. 

Mrs Carter looked round to see if all were assembled. Then 
she stood up and spoke to them, kindly and earnestly. She 
said that it might seem at first sight a mere matter of amuse- 
ment for which they were collected together ; and that she 
would have left them entirely to themselves, if it had not been 
their own wish that sh-e should be present ; but it was a great 
satisfaction to her — they could little tell how great — to join 
with them, to be one with them in their interests and pleasures. 
And in this instance, she- could not help feeling that the object 
for which they had met was beyond amusement. To her, it 
was one of great importance ; perhaps, some of them would 
agree with her, all probably would who could trace the improve- 
ment which had taken place in the school during the last two 
years. When Mary Vernon was first appointed judge, there 
was prevalent amongst them, besides a frequent neglect of 
orders, a tone of -carelessness about serious things, and some- 
times even of irreverence. It was often the cause of great 
regret and anxiety both to her sister and herself. However 
they might strive to enforce right principles whilst with their 
pupils, there were times when necessarily they were left alone, 
and at those times great mischief was done. ^ Such mischief,’ 
continued Mrs Carter, ‘ still no doubt exists ; painful experience 
has shown us all that it does so ; but how much it has been 
lessened by Mary’s constant watchfulness, I could not have 
imagined if my own observations had not given me proof. 
Even the late distressing circumstances have, I believe, chiefly 
arisen because she was obliged to be more absent from the 
school-room than before. Mary knows that she possesses my 
gratitude, and love, and esteem,’ added Mrs Carter ; ‘ she will 
not require any assurances of them now ; I would rather speak, 
my children, to any among you who may be expecting to suc- 
ceed her. Her influence may be yours, if only you w’ill seek it 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


325 


in the same way. I think you must all know what that way 
is — you must all feel that it is good example. But, perhaps, 
some of you will not be inclined to think with me, that it is a 
very serious matter, whether this example is or is not set. Yet 
I am sure, that if Mary were asked how it was that she was 
able to keep such a watch over herself, she would say that it 
was because watchfulness was made the subject of her daily 
prayers, because she knew that her position in the school was a 
trust given her, not by me, nor by you, but by God ; and that 
she must one day answer to Him for the manner in which she 
had exercised it. This was her view of the office she under- 
took. It is my earnest hope, that such may be the view of 
whoever may succeed her.’ Mrs Carter paused ; involuntarily 
her eye rested upon Ruth. It was a glance of calm satisfaction 
and approval. 

Ruth was leaning her head against the wall ; her fingers 
played nervously with a bouquet of flowers which had been 
placed near her ; her face was bent down, and Mary was turn- 
ing towards her, half unmindful of the public praise which she 
was receiving in her desire to read the secrets of Ruth’s heart. 

/ I would not mar the cheerfulness of your spirits, my chil- 
dren,’ once more continued Mrs Carter, ‘ by the anxious 
thoughts which are crowding upon mine, and I can scarcely 
expect that any, even the most serious minded, should think of 
the choice now to be made as I think of it ; but, upon whom- 
soever that choice may now fall, she may be certain that both 
my sister and myself shall look with gratitude and affection upon 
every endeavour after right conduct; that we shall aid her to 
the very utmost of our power, and pray for her with a sincerity 
of affection and interest which even the love of a parent can 
scarcely surpass. Now may the blessing of God be with you, 
my children, especially, most especially upon her whom you are 
about to elect to be your example and guide.’ 

There was a deep stillness when the last words were spoken, 
and Mrs Carter resumed her seat. Mary Vernon touched 
Ruth’s hand ; it was of an icy coldness, and she did not move. 

‘ Jessie,’ said Mrs Carter, in a lighter tone than before, ‘ I 
hear you are to be the first to give your vote.’ 

Jessie sprang forward, exclaiming, ‘ I vote for Ruth ; ’ but 
she was stopped. 

• Hush! hush I no one must tell,’ exclaimed Fanny Wilson. 
‘ Where is your paper ? Is the name written ? ’ 


326 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Jessie produced her paper, and walking up to the table, laid it 
in the vase, turning round as she did so to nod and smile mean- 
ingly at Ruth ; and then, according to Fanny Wilson’s direction, 
proceeding into the inner room, and taking her seat by the side 
of the judge’s chair. Ellen Hastings followed, then another, and 
another, slowly, regularly, and silently. 

Though the election was almost certainly determined before- 
hand, a sudden awe and suspense had stolen over them. 

‘ It is Ruth’s turn ; Ruth must vote herself,’ exclaimed Alice, 
as Madeline moved into the inner room. 

Mrs Carter turned to her sister with a smile. ‘ Ruth will be 
in a difficulty,’ she said ; ‘ her vote will be the exception.’ 

^ Ruth ! why does she not.come?’ inquired one or two im- 
patiently from the inner room. 

‘ They are waiting, dear Ruth ; look up,’ whispered Mary 
Vernon. ‘ Ruth, dear, do speak,’ she continued. 

Ruth raised her head hurriedly. ‘ My turn ! did they say it 
was my turn ? ’ 

^ Yes, yours ; but the others shall go before you. Harriet and 
Florence, it is for you to vote next;’ and Harriet and Florence 
passed on in order. 

‘ My turn now,’ said Mary, smiling. She placed her paper 
with the others, and then returned to Ruth. 

^ I must go ; I shall vote for Fanny,’ said Ruth. She tried 
to rise, but her limbs shook, and she caught the back of the 
chair. 

‘ It is too much excitement, we must not let it go on,’ said 
Mrs Carter, speaking across the table to her sister. ‘ Ruth, my 
love, stay where you are ; Mary, you bring her vote.’ 

Ruth’s paper was placed with the rest. 

‘ Now,’ said Mrs Carter, as she stood up again, ‘we will read 
the names and count.’ 

The party in the inner room crowded near. 

Mrs Carter drew the vase towards her, and began to open the 
papers. ‘ Ruth ! it is only Ruth ; scarcely more than one 
name. But for form’s sake we must count.’ 

Mrs Carter repeated the names in an audible voice. 

Madeline could contain her delight no longer, and rushing 
forward, she threw herself upon Ruth’s neck. ‘ O Ruth ! the 
pleasure — if papa and mamma were but here ! ’ 

Ruth smiled ; it was a ghastly smile. 

Hark ! what sounds were those 1 The noise of carriage- 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


327 

wheels, the opening of a gate, the quick trampling of horses’ 
feet, the thundering knock and pealing bell. 

A hush of expectation ! Ruth sank back in her chair, resting 
as a prisoner reprieved. 

Dawson entered, and said something in a low tone to Mrs 
Carter. 

* It will soon be over ; can you keep up ? ' whispered Mary 
Vernon to Ruth. 

Ruth nodded assent. 

‘ Who can it be.? A visitor? How provoking were the 
murmurs which went round. 

‘ Silence ! Mrs Carter is returning ; it is her step.' But it 
was not her step. 

‘Dear Ruth, shall I ask for you to go away?' inquired 
Madeline. 

The answer was a faint, sharp cry, and Ruth started from her 
seat. 

Madeline's glance followed hers. ‘ Papa 1 our own papa ! ' 
she rushed forward. 

Mr Clifford was at the door. 

‘ Papa come! my dear papa!' Madeline threw herself into 
his arms. 

He held her, kissed her tenderly, again and again ; but his 
eye wandered. ‘ Ruth, my darling Ruth! my treasure!' 

Cold, upright, still, Ruth stood — ^but for one instant only ; 
the next, and she was kneeling at Mrs Carter’s feet in penitence 
and shame. ‘ I hid the book ; forgive me ; speak for me ; 
ask him to forgive me. It was not Janet ; I did it. Oh ! 
speak to him. He will not kiss me ; speak for me, forgive 
me.' Ruth hid her face, and burst into an agony of tears. 

‘ Ruth ! my child !' Mr Clifford drew near, and would have 
raised her, but she turned her head away from him. 

‘ He must not love me. I have deceived ; I have done so 
wrongly. O Madeline ! stay with me, do not all leave me.' 
Ruth's voice failed her. 

Mr Clifford lifted her up, and placed her in a chair, and then, 
with a look of intense anxiety, appealed to Mrs Carter for an 
explanation. 

Mary Vernon came near and supported Ruth's head upon 
her shoulder, and whispered : ‘ Ruth, dearest, for your papa's 
sake, be calm ; tell him if you can. No one but yourself knows 
what this means.’ She stooped and kissed Ruth's forehead, 


323 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


and Ruth, soothed by the expression of sympathy at such a 
moment, made an effort at self-command. 

‘ Shall we be together alone, my child.?’ said Mr Clifford in 
a tone the very quietness of which proved the agitation of his 
mind ; but Ruth shook her head. Her lips quivered, and 
again her tears fell fast ; but now they were quiet tears, bitter 
but salutaiy, the relief of an overburdened mind. ‘ I will tell 
here, papa,’ she said, as she held her father’s hand and spoke 
in a broken voice ; and then leaving her seat, she stood, still 
clasping her father’s hand, and stealthily raising her eye to his 
in doubt and fear. 

‘ You are right, Ruth,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ right to confess 
before all, if in the knowledge of all you have offended.’ 

‘ But it may be too much for her,’ interposed Mrs Carter. 

‘ She will bear it,’ said Mr Clifford. ‘ She will be happier 
afterwards. Ruth, can you tell us now ? ’ And Ruth waited 
but for an instant, and then in a rapid yet firm voice, she owned 
her fault and its consequences. She told of her search after 
the missing volume ; the temptation to which she yielded in 
reading it ; the shame which seized her ; and the impulse of 
fear which induced her to hide the book ; the impossibility 
afterwards of restoring it to its former place ; and the weakness 
of principle, and pride of heart, which had induced her to keep 
the secret of her conduct concealed ; and to allow another to be 
blamed unjustly for her offence. The confession was without 
evasion or excuse ; it was listened to in breathless silence. 
Madeline’s eyes were riveted on her sister’s pale face, and 
Alice’s chain was twisted with nervous eagerness. Ruth 
stopped, and Madeline sprang forward and exclaimed, ‘ She is 
best still ; no one would have told as she has done.’ 

Mr Clifford held up his finger to check her. ‘ Stay, Made- 
line ; Ruth has grievously sinned. We will hope and pray that 
she may be forgiven ; ’ and as he said this he turned towards 
Mrs Carter. Whilst Ruth was recounting the history of her 
fault, Mrs Carter’s manner had been that of quiet, fixed atten- 
tion. Her head was bent forward to catch each word as it fell, 
and not a muscle of her face moved. 

‘Can Mrs Carter forgive.?’ said Mr Clifford, and he drew 
Ruth forward. Mrs Carter looked up ; tears were dimming her 
eyes — tears for Ruth’s sin. 

‘ God forgive you, even as I do, my own Ruth,’ she said. 
Mr Clifford’s hand rested upon his child’s head, in the attitude 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


329 


of blessing. His lips moved in prayer. Ruth’s glance was 
raised for an instant. She would have stepped forward, she 
would have taken the hand which Mrs Carter extended towards 
her, but her head grew confused and her eyelids fell, and she 
caught her father’s arm, and, almost unconscious from excite- 
ment and misery of feeling, was carried from the room. 

It was towards evening before Mr Clifford thought it desir- 
able to see Ruth again. She was then lying on the sofa in 
Mrs Carter’s study, where she had been taken to be free from 
the possibility of interruption or excitement. There could be 
no doubt that she was penitent ; that she was conscious of the 
offence of which she had been guilty, in the sight of God as 
well as before man. Ruth’s heart once softened, all her holier 
feelings returned. The veil had fallen from her eyes, and she 
saw herself in her true light. There were many reasons, how- 
ever, to be afraid for the future. Ruth’s fault was a very subtle 
one. It would recur continually in different shapes ; it might 
sometimes assume the appearance of a virtue. Nothing but 
watchfulness, sincere and unremitting, would enable her to 
guard against it. And Ruth could scarcely be expected to 
practise such watchfulness. She had as yet given but slight 
proofs of ever having attempted it ; and at school, the tempta- 
tions to forgetfulness were very great. Mr Clifford had left 
home almost with a determination that this should be the last 
half-year which his children should spend at school. An occa- 
sion had offered itself for resuming his former plans. Mrs 
Clifford’s sister was about to return to England, in consequence 
of her husband’s ill health. It was Mrs Beresford’s wish to 
spend the year which they were to pass in England with them. 
This would give Mrs Clifford the opportunity of again de- 
voting herself to her two little girls, and by the time Cap- 
tain and Mrs Mordaunt went back to India, and Mrs 
Beresford again became an inmate of Laneton,*Ruth and Made- 
line would have reached an age when they would not so much 
require the constant care of a governess, and might without 
difficulty pursue their studies at home, under their mother’s in- 
spection. Mr Clifford’s only doubt as to this arrangement had 
arisen from the progress which his children appeared to have 
made at school. They were improving rapidly in general ac- 
quirements, and he had not as yet discovered that their minds 
had received any injury. He could not help trusting that Mrs 
Carter’s high principles and warm interest in her pupils had 


330 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


succeeded in so raising the tone of the school, that his children 
might still be safe there. But this day’s experience had unde- 
ceived him. Whatever a school-life might be for others, even 
for Madeline, it was evidently undesirable for Ruth. The pride 
of her character required a constant guard, such a guard as 
Mrs Carter, with all her endeavours, would scarcely be able to 
keep. Where there were so many to superintend, it was not 
possible that unremitting attention should be bestowed upon 
any one; and, after a long consultation with Mrs Carter herself, 
it was decided by both that the departure of Ruth and Made- 
line should be final. 

^ They must return with me to-morrow,’ said Mr Clifford, as 
he left Mrs Carter to seek Ruth in the study. ‘ The business 
which called me to town, and made me break in upon you so 
unexpectedly, will also oblige me not to delay longer than I can 
help. I can scarcely wish to do so ; my poor child’s position 
will be so painful.’ 

Mrs Carter could not but agree, though the idea of parting 
with the children weighed heavily upon her mind. Perhaps 
never, till the moment of Ruth’s confession, had she known how 
entirely she trusted and loved her. ‘ And poor Alice,’ she said, 
^ without her young companions, what will she do ? ’ 

‘ I had a conversation with Lady Catharine Hyde, before I 
left home,’ replied Mr Clifford. ‘ It seemed right to inform her 
of my possible determination ; but it will make no difference to 
her. She is too fixed in her plan. Alice is to be educated at 
school till she has passed her fifteenth birthday.’ 

‘ It may be best,’ said Mrs Carter, after a short consideration. 
^ There is much that is good in Alice ; she has begun to resist 
temptation, to act upon principle. Lady Catharine may be 
assured that no care of mine shall be wanting.’ 

‘ And she will receive from you that which she much needs,’ 
replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ I mean affection. It is love by which 
Alice must be governed. It would be an inexpressible satis- 
faction to me to feel that she would receive it at the Manor.’ 

Mrs Carter faintly smiled. ‘ We must hope,’ she answered, 
^ that as Alice grows older, she may be able to understand the 
warmth that lies hidden by a cold manner. I think she does 
in a manner now.’ 

‘Poor child!’ said Mr Clifford, sighing. ‘ It would grieve 
me to think of her loneliness, but that one learns to trust all 
these things to a Higher Power.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


331 


‘ I have great hopes of her, unstable though her character is,* 
continued Mrs Carter. ‘ The time may be long, and the effort 
required may be great, but I do believe, that hereafter she will 
be all that she could wish, like * Mrs Carter stopped sud- 

denly, and Mr Clifford, as he opened the door, said, ‘ Children 
little imagine the pain their faults cause. Ruth may be very 
unhappy, but she would scarcely exchange feelings with me.* 
Mr Clifford went to Ruth. She was lying still and exhausted. 
She could not bear to look at her papa ; she trembled when he 
spoke to her ; her eyelids were swollen with crying. Mr Clif- 
ford’s manner was, at first, grave, and it might even have been 
thought stern. He had no wish to make Ruth a heroine. He 
did not feel, and he did not desire her to feel, that a late re- 
pentance and confession were virtues. Forgive he could, fully 
and freely, but he did not conceal that he was deeply pained 
and disappointed. Ruth felt more alive to the true state of her 
own heart, when her father talked over her fault quietly, and 
examined into it, and discussed it, than she had done under 
the great excitement of the morning. Feeling then had carried 
her through all ; she could have confessed worse faults ; she 
could have humbled herself infinitely more ; she could have 
endured any punishment : but the probability would have been, 
that, when the passionate burst of distress was over, the original 
fault would have resumed its power. All great exhibitions of 
feeling are to be dreaded. There may be a theatrical show of 
repentance as well as of zeal or affection. Ruth’s tears now 
were very quiet and very real. A short time convinced Mr 
Clifford of this, and then he turned to the point to which he 
especially desired to direct her mind. ‘ There is no occasion 
for me, my dear Ruth,’ he said, ^ to tell you against Whom you 
have sinned ; that you know as fully as I do. But, when you 
said your prayers, did the thought never enter your mind, that 
they were a mockery.?’ Ruth seemed shocked at the expression. 
‘ Yes, indeed they were a mockeiy,’ continued Mr Clifford. 
‘ They were the prayers of a double mind ; of a heart conscious 
of sin, yet unwilling to forsake it. Ruth, my child, it would 
have made me very miserable if I had known this.’ 

^ Papa, I did try to attend sometimes,’ said Ruth. 

^ Attend to the meaning of the words, perhaps ; but the feel- 
ing, the sincerity, the hearty wish, they must have been absent. 
God will never accept our prayers without them ; and if we do 
not pray, we cannot be safe under His protection ; and then, 


332 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


Ruth, it might have been the will of God that during those sad 
days you should die/ 

Ruth shuddered, and, looking up in her father’s face, said — 

‘ Papa, I have prayed now.’ 

^ And I have prayed too, Ruth,’ replied Mr Clifford, as he 
stooped to kiss her. ‘ I am sure we must both be happier.’ 

A faint gleam of pleasure passed over Ruth’s pale face. She 
placed her hand within her father’s, and he held it fondly. 

‘ Papa,’ she said, venturing to raise her eyes to his, ‘ perhaps 
God will forgive me for your prayers.’ 

‘ For the prayers of One who loves you infinitely better than 
I or any other human being can ever do, my darling child,’ 
replied Mr Clifford. 

‘ For our Saviour’s sake,’ murmured Ruth. 

For an instant Mr Clifford paused. The expression of his 
face was that of intense thought — more than thought, devotion. 

‘ Ruth,’ he said at length, ‘ you cannot tell, you can scarcely 
think, the gratitude which that love demands. To be forgiven ! 
to have offended deeply, as we all offend, and to sin, not once 
or twice, but every hour ! to act against warnings and instruc- 
tions wilfully, and still to have hope ! to know, from the very 
words of our blessed Lord, that, “ even unto seventy times 
seven,” there is pardon, if only we repent, and trust, and pray. 
My own dear child, shall we not both try to show our love 
also t ’ 

Ruth could not find a voice to answer. 

‘For you there is one way above all others,’ continued Mr 
Clifford. ‘Will you watch yourself, Ruth? watch your thoughts? 
— there lies the origin of your sin — very, very deep — in your 
wishes ; coveting admiration and human applause ; thinking 
upon it ; allowing yourself to put it before you as a point to be 
obtained. You wished for power and influence, such as Mary 
Vernon’s ; that you have acknowledged. God had placed you 
in an inferior position, and you desired a higher one. You 
would not have taken any wrong means to obtain it, but you 
suffered your thoughts to dwell upon it. The sins of our 
wishes are more ensnaring than any others. Covetousness, 
which is ranked with stealing and murder, is but the sin of 
a wish. Will you, my child, tell me that you will watch 
yourself? ’ 

Ruth’s ‘ yes ’ was not very intelligible ; but her father read 
her thoughts in her countenance, and was satisfied. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


333 


‘For the future/ he said, ‘you must make strict rules; one 
in particular, against day-dreams. We wish : then we indulge 
ourselves in fancying how it would be if we were to obtain our 
wishes ; then the wish becomes stronger, and grows into a real 
longing desire ; and at last we act. Check your day-dreams. 
Check every thought of what people may say or think of you. 
Never repeat praise to yourself; when you hear it, try to 
remember how different you are in the sight of God, how 
unworthy even when you do your best. If you can do this, 
even in a slight degree, you will have taken a great step 
towards overcoming the defects of your natural character. If 
you do not, you may humble yourself to the dust before your 
fellow-creatures, but you will not be humble in the eye of God/ 
‘ Papa, I will try,’ said Ruth. * 

• ‘ And pray,’ continued Mr Clifford ; ‘ and then,’ he added, 

reverently, ‘ we will both pray ; now, shall we not, Ruth ? ’ 
Ruth clasped her hands together, and knelt by the side of 
her father, whilst in the language of the Church, fervently, 
though in a low and faltering voice, Mr Clifford acknowledged 
for his child that she had ‘ erred and strayed from God’s ways 
like a lost sheep ; that she had left undone those things which 
she ought to have done, and had done those things which she 
ought not to have done ; ’ and entreated that the ‘ God who is 
always more ready to hear than we to pray, would pour down 
upon her the abundance of His mercy ; forgiving her those 
things whereof her conscience was afraid, and giving her those 
good things which she was not worthy to ask, but through the 
merits and mediation of Jesus Christ.’ 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


HE wakening of the next morning was a wakening to pain 



1 and regret with many besides Ruth. To be disappointed 
in those we have respected, is a grief early experienced and 
long remembered. Ruth’s fault was little spoken of, for it was 
felt too deeply. Those who might have been inclined to criti- 
cise and discuss it were checked, if by no other consideration^ 
by the presence of Madeline. 

Poor Madeline ! It was sad indeed to see her, so downcast, 


334 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


so sliy ; shrinking from observation, and clinging only to Alice, 
as if she herself had been guilty. Alice’s sympathy fully went 
with Madeline. Ruth’s confession was startling to her ; it 
seemed a dream. She looked around, and thought for the 
moment that honesty and truth were nowhere to be found. 
When Ruth had failed, upon whom could dependence be 
placed.? To see Janet Harding distressed and irritated her. 
She knew that the feeling was unfair, but there was a general 
reaction now in favour of Janet, who had never yet been a 
favourite. A sense of justice made all willing to atone for any 
past unkindness, by showing that they were sorry for the false 
accusation. And it was difficult for Janet to take this notice 
quietly. She was a little inclined to play the heroine ; to talk 
of all she had gone through ; to repeat again and again how 
surprised she had felt when the book was discovered in her 
drawer ; until at length Alice could bear it no longer, and im- 
patiently begged her to remember that, after all, no one had 
thought much about her, and Mrs Carter had scarcely taken the 
trouble to scold her. If she had been punished, it was certain 
that Ruth would have spoken long before. Janet was silenced 
for the time, and when she recommenced, Alice took refuge 
with Madeline and Mary Vernon. 

But neither the trials of Madeline nor Alice, as regarded their 
companions, were to be of long continuance. By twelve o’clock 
everything was to be ready for departure. Alice was to go at 
the same time. She and Mary alone knew that Ruth and 
Madeline were not to return. The others looked upon the 
parting merely as the ordinary separation for the holidays. 
Alice’s heart was already so heavy that this additional weight 
was less felt than it would otherwise have been. She did not 
then realise what school would be without her favourite com- 
panions ; she was conscious that something was added to the 
shadow which already seemed cast over everything ; but the'' 
holidays were come, and her return appeared far off, and she 
would not dwell upon it. Madeline had room in her heart but 
for one thought ; Ruth would leave school in disgrace, and her 
mamma must know it. The delights of home were all marred 
by the idea, which, however, Madeline kept to herself, whilst 
brooding upon it and grieving over it, lest by speaking of it she 
should add to her sister’s sorrow. 

The good-conduct prizes were to be given the next day ; but 
Alice had no regret for being absent, the prizes were nothing to 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


335 


her now ; and Madeline forgot that she was certain of one ; 
and when Mrs Carter placed a book in her hand, and kissed 
her, and thanked her for the good example she had set, she laid 
it silently on the table, and cried. 

^ Is Miss Clifford nearly ready ? ^ inquired Dawson, coming 
to the door of the bedroom as the clock in the hall struck half- 
past eleven. 

Ruth was assisting Mary Vernon in packing her carpet-bag 
— that is, she appeared to assist, in reality she did nothing. 
She did not know what to take up, what to fetch ; she brought 
the wrong things and carried them back, and then sat down to 
rest, looking round the room in despair of ever being ready ; 
and at last fairly giving up, she threw her arms around Mary, 
and exclaimed, bitterly — 

‘ O Mary ! if it were not the last time ! if I could come 
back ! if Mrs Carter could see that I was sorry ! Will papa 
consent do you think he will t ’ 

Mary shook her head. 

‘ It would not be good for you, dearest Ruth. He said so 
last night.^ 

‘ Disgrace ! ^ murmured Ruth ; ^ and they will talk of me 
and tell about it. Mary, are you sure you love me 1 Don’t 
you despise me like the rest ? ’ 

‘ Despise you, Ruth ! No ; how could I .? No one despises 
you.’ 

‘ But they look at me,’ continued Ruth ; ^and Madeline speaks 
differently even, and Alice ; and what will mamma say ? ’ 

* Dearest Ruth, can you not think of these things differently 
— patiently, I mean ; like a punishment ? You know we are 
bound to bear punishment well. It would please your papa if 
you could ; and, more than that, it would please God.’ 

Ruth’s face assumed a calmer expression. 

‘ Shame is my punishment,’ she said, in a humble tone. 

* And, it may be said, a blessing,’ added Mary. ‘ Ruth, you 
may have had a warning now for your whole life.’ 

‘ Mamma ! ’ repeated Ruth, in a tone of deep anguish. 

Mary looked at her with compassion. 

< I shall hear from you,’ said Ruth, making an effort to 
change the current of her thoughts ; ^ and perhaps you will 
come and stay with us. Papa said he would ask you.’ 

‘ Yes, indeed, I will come if I may, and we will write con- , 
stantly, and Alice will return to tell what is going on here ; and 


336 


LANE TO N PARSONAGE. 


I am to have a letter from Mrs Carter when she has time, 
Dear Ruth, we must be friends all our lives.’ 

‘ Friends, if I deserve it,’ said Ruth, in an under-voice, and 
she turned away, unable to utter another word. 

‘ Five packages, three boxes, and two bags ; is that all ? ’ in- 
quired Mr Clifford. 

He stood in the hall, striving to appear unconcerned. Mrs 
Carter was with him at the dining-room door. Ruth came 
slowly down the stairs, followed by Madeline and Mary. 

‘ Alice ! where is Alice ? ’ inquired Mr Clifford. 

‘ In the school-room, waiting, I believe,’ said Mrs Carter. 
‘ My children, you have no time to spare.’ 

Ruth remained in the hall hesitating. Madeline looked round 
for her. 

‘ Dear Ruth, you must come,’ she whispered. 

Mary put one hand affectionately on Ruth’s shoulder, and 
with the other opened the school-room door. Ruth stepped 
before her sister. There was a noise in the school-room ; busi- 
ness going on, and parting words with Alice. Ruth cast around 
her a nervous, agitated glance. The memories of the eventful 
years of her school-life seemed crowded into that one moment; — 
the memories and the feelings they called forth — shame, regret, 
disappointed hopes, neglected opportunities — they were all there. 
Madeline went up to Alice and spoke. Jessie O’Neile heard 
her, and exclaimed — 

‘ It is Ruth ! they are going ! ’ 

A general rush followed to say good-bye to Ruth. Good-bye ! 
a cordial, kind good-bye ; one in which no bitterness nor re- 
proach, no -thoughts of pride nor of self-exaltation, were mingled. 
Janet Harding kept Ruth’s hand fast in hers. She was afraid 
to express more than common feeling. 

‘In six weeks you will be here again, Ruth,’ said little 
Jessie. 

Alice forgot the injunction of secrecy. Her own heart grew 
heavy, and she exclaimed — 

‘ No, Jessie, never ! they are going for good.’ 

‘Not to come back ! Ruth, my own dear Ruth ! Fanny, 
Janet, Florence, do you hear.?’ and Jessie caught Ruth’s dress, 
and looked up in her face with an expression of wondering 
grief. 

Ruth’s lip quivered. She felt that in another moment her 
self-command would be gone. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


337 


* Kiss me, Janet,’ said Madeline, who made no effort to 
restrain her sorrow. ‘ You will all write to us, and we shall so 
want to know. Florence, perhaps you will hear about poor 
Clara, as you live near ; and will you tell us if you ever meet 
Justine ; and about the prizes, and the new girls next half-year? 
But Alice will be able to tell that.’ 

Alice was sadly lonely at the thought. 

‘ Maddy, I cannot bear you to go,’ exclaimed Janet. ‘ Every 
one is going that I cared for.’ 

‘ But, Alice, you will be here after the holidays ? ’ said 
Florence. 

Alice could scarcely bear to answer yes. Yet there was one 
comfort ; the hope that the next half-year might be happier and 
better than the last. The future ! — Alice lived in the future. 
She was ever intending, and ever resolving. Her intentions 
satisfied her now ; their fulfilment it remained for time to show. 

Madeline drew Alice away ; then paused at the door to take 
one more look. Ruth slowly followed, Jessie still clinging to, 
her side. Janet Harding was standing between the two school- 
rooms, looking after them. Ruth heard her father’s voice ; but 
her heart was full with one sad, bitter thought. She withdrew 
herself suddenly from little Jessie, and turned to speak the last 
words to Janet. 

‘Janet, have you forgiven? are you quite sure? It was 
dreadfully wrong, and I am so very, very sorry.’ 

Janet gave the kiss of hearty forgiveness fondly, almost with 
a feeling that pardon was uncalled for; Ruth struggled vainly 
with her tears. 

‘ Now Jessie, darling, good-bye ! Write to me, won’t you ?’ 

Madeline and Alice returned to hasten her. 

‘ Good-bye, once more, all of you.’ 

A last look ! a last smile ! and the door of the school-room 
closed after them, and they stood in the hall, but one more 
parting before them ; it was the hardest of all ; from Mrs Carter, 
her sister, and Mary. Ruth was thankful that it was short ; 
thankful that she was spared a longer trial of the self-reproach 
which the blessing of the. true, kind friend whom she had grieved, 
could not but cause her. And Madeline was thankful also ; foi 
Ruth, for her father, and, even more than all, for Mrs Carter ; 
for the prayer that God would guard them through their future 
life was broken and inaudible. The last gaze at the old familiar 
walls was denied to Ruth. Her head was bowed down with 

Y 


338 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


shame ; her eyes were dimmed and scorched with tears. But 
Madeline looked with Alice from the window of the carriage, 
to watch Mary Vernon standing upon the steps, Mrs Carter 
and Miss Barnard behind her, and Dawson looking over the 
blinds ; and when the carriage passed the gate, she still dwelt 
upon the outline of the home she had left, its projections, 
windows, chimneys, until at length — it was the final recollec- 
tion which Madeline retained of Mrs Carter’s house — her eye 
rested upon the half-opened window of the little dressing-room. 
Might it not have whispered to her in the peace of her own 
conscience, that prayer — humble, simple, earnest prayer — was 
to be the safeguard of her future life, even as it had been her 
protection amidst the temptations of a school ? 


CHAPTER XXX, 



HERE was a small but cheerful room on the south side of 


the old Manor House of Haseley. It looked out upon the 
quaint garden — the raised terrace with the summer-house at its 
extremity, the trim gravel walks bordered by flower-beds, and 
the circle of turf in the centre, in which all the different paths 
were made to terminate. Alice Lennox was seated at the open 
window of this room ; but she saw with indifference the beauty 
of the bright summer morning. Though the flowers were bril- 
liant and the trees full of foliage, and though the sky was deeply 
blue, softened by a few thin feathery clouds, and the fresh dew 
glittered in the sunshine which flickered upon the grass — all 
was as nothing to her. She did not seem to hear the songs of 
the birds, or notice the glancing of the butterflies ; and the 
gardener, who was trimming the turf near the house, worked 
unweariedly with his smooth, sharp-cutting scythe, without once 
attracting her attention. She was not thinking of these things 
or caring for them ; and soon she turned away to survey the 
comforts of her own apartment. 

Lady Catharine Hyde had selected it especially for her, and 
fitted it up with all which she deemed most likely to promote 
her goodness and her happiness. Alice could not be insensible 
to the thought thus bestowed upon her. Books were there, her 
favourites — such as she would herself have chosen — and others 
of history, travels, English and foreign classics, with which it 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


339 


was desirable she should be acquainted. A work-table, a 
flower-stand, a piano, a writing-case, a drawing-box also — it 
seemed that there was nothing further needed — nothing for 
occupation and interest, little even for affection, for, gazing 
upon Alice, as she suffered her glance to wander round the 
room, was the sweet, gentle, holy face of the mother whom she 
had so early lost, so long regretted. Alice’s attention was fixed, 
as for an instant she dwelt upon it, and rising, she left her 
station by the window, and stood before it. 

Her mother’s picture ! blessed and hallowed were its asso- 
ciations — beautiful and pure as a dream of heaven ! Alice’s 
eyes were dimmed by tears, and with a sudden impulse of right 
feeling and energy, she roused herself from the listlessness 
which was creeping over her, and with the exclamation, ‘ Yes, 
I must really try,’ began to busy herself in arranging the furni- 
ture so as best to suit her convenience. 

It was Alice’s first day at home ; but the Manor scarcely 
seemed to her like home. Her heart was at school, with her 
companions, her pursuits, the interests which for more than five 
years had been engrossing to her. Now she was to begin a 
new life ; and what was it to be ? Many times in the course 
of that morning did Alice leave her employment to ponder upon 
this question. At her age there are few who would not have 
done the same ; for there are few upon whom care has so early 
pressed that they cannot recall a time when the world seemed a 
fairy land, life but one uninterrupted summer, when imagination 
provided for them wealth, and honour, and deep unchanging 
affection, and they found but one drawback to their vision of 
happiness — that it was not present, but to come ; that the hour 
before them was dull and tame, and the future, which they might 
never reach, bright as a scene of enchantment. So it was then 
with Alice Lennox. 

The book-shelves were soon put into disorder. Alice thought 
that she could arrange the volumes better, and they were taken 
down and laid upon the floor. The work-table occupied the 
position best fitted for the flower-stand ; both were moved into 
the centre of the room. There were particular boxes, bags, 
small ornaments which she had collected at school ; these were 
brought from her bedroom and distributed amongst the chairs. 
The chairs themselves were not placed as well as they might be, 
or as she fancied they might be, and they were twisted and 
turned, and at last left in confusion till the remainder of the 


340 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


furniture should be settled. When all this was done, Alice 
grew weary and rather cross, and sat down to rest. Solitude 
was dull, and she thought of Ruth and Madeline Clifford. Lady 
Catharine had assured her they would be with her in the course 
of the day. But the morning was a busy time with them ; 
probably they would not be able to come till the afternoon, and 
then, perhaps, not to stay. This was not like the constant com- 
panionship of school, and Alice sighed as her thoughts reverted 
to the scenes she had left, and again she drew her chair to the 
window, and sat down to indulge in a reverie and a day-dream. 

We will give but one passing illustration of the nature of 
Alice’s thoughts. The ‘ castles in the air’ of a girl of sixteen, 
just set free from school, are not likely to be profitable to the 
world in general any more than to herself. Alice had not 
passed untainted through the ordeal of a school life. She had 
in her mind the usual romance of gaiety and admiration, of 
wealth and luxury. Her ‘ castle in the air ’ was, in other 
words, only the indulgence of her vanity ; but she had not yet 
learned to examine her thoughts, and purify and subdue them ; 
they were pleasant thoughts, and she was satisfied. 

She imagined herself in a ball-room — large, brilliantly lighted, 
decked with evergreens and flowers ; crowds of elegantly-dressed 
persons walking up and down, or seated upon benches watching 
the different parties who were about to begin dancing. Music 
was heard, but not loud enough to drown conversation. Alice 
could catch even the faintest whispers of her own fancy. She 
herself was in imagination one of the dancers, and amongst the 
most likely of all to attract notice. Elegant, graceful, clever, 
interesting — -these were common words when applied to herself ; 
and then ensued supposed conversations with her partners ; a 
compliment, and an answer, and another compliment ; light 
words, and sharp observations upon others ; and soon, the dis- 
persion of the company — the return home — the events of the 
next day — a party of pleasure, with the same persons anxious to 
be with her — the same consciousness of being admired. We 
will not follow her further. 

‘ Alice,’ said the grave authoritative voice of Lady Catharine 
Hyde, ‘ this is not the way to get on in the world ; it is nearly 
one o’clock.’ 

Alice started, blushed, and began an excuse. 

‘ Your room must not be left in this state, my dear. 1 shall 
expect to see it look very different before luncheon.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


341 


The door closed with rather a hasty sound. Alice checked 
the exclamation which rose to her lips, and recommenced her 
work with a different spirit ; not dreamy, but fretted into energ>\ 
The present was before her now, recalled, as if by a spell, by 
Lady Catharine’s words. The gong sounded precisely as the 
church clock struck one. Alice placed the last set of books 
neatly on the shelf, and ran down-stairs. Lady Catharine was 
waiting for her in the dark, oak-panelled dining-room, standing 
at a round table at the upper end, upon which the luncheon was 
prepared. 

‘ I shall hope to see you more orderly, by and by, my dear,’ 
she said, as Alice took her seat. ‘ We are to lead a regular life 
now — not as it used to be when you were running wild in the 
holidays. I like you to be in the drawing-room five minutes 
before luncheon, and then we can come in together. What will 
you have ? Some cold meat ? ’ 

^ Only some bread and butter, thank you,’ replied Alice ; and 
she began to eat in silence. 

‘ You are tired, my dear,’ said Lady Catharine ‘ Marsham 
would have helped you, if you had asked her.’ 

‘ No, not tired at all, thank you,’ answered Alice ; and 
silence followed again. 

‘ I shall like to talk to you about your studies to-morrow,’ 
observed Lady Catharine, after a long pause. ‘ I shall wish to 
fix hours for your different pursuits. It will not do to give up 
the discipline of school all at once ; and your friends, Ruth and 
Madeline, are very industrious.’ 

‘ They are not as old as I am,’ remarked Alice. 

‘ Not quite ; but I think they are more forward. It struck me, 
from some observations I made in the summer, that Ruth was 
much better informed in English history than you are.’ 

‘ We read history every day with Mrs Carter,’ replied Alice. 

‘ Very probably ; but I am afraid you were careless. I shall 
beg Mr Clifford to mark out a course of reading for you, such as 
he would give to his own children.’ 

Alice made no reply, but helped herself to some more bread ; 
refusing, with a certain tone of pettishness, the cake which Lady 
Catharine offered — indeed pressed her to take. 

‘ I am sure you must have fagged yourself,’ began Lady 
Catharine again ; ‘ your appetite is not half as good as it was 
yesterday : or have you a headache ? You must tell me, my dear, 
directly you feel at all ill.’ 

Alice declared herself free from indisposition of every kind, 


342 


LAS ETON PARSONAGE, 


and, wishing to divert notice from herself, remarked that she 
was glad that it was settled for Mr Clifford’s sister, Mrs Mor- 
daunt, not to go back to India; and she supposed that her 
mother would live with her still. 

Lady Catharine said that she believed that was the arrange- 
ment ; and it certainly seemed the best. The Parsonage was 
too small to accommodate her comfortably. 

‘ And Madeline and Ruth will keep their school-room,’ 
observed Alice. ‘ They were to have given it up if Mrs Beres- 
ford had come back.’ 

Lady Catharine said pointedly, that a school-room was a very 
great comfort to them ; they made so much use of it. 

Alice foresaw a little good advice ; and, to avoid it, wondered 
why neither Ruth nor Madeline had been to see her. 

‘ They seldom pay visits in the morning, my dear, you know ; 
so there is no occasion to wonder about it. They will be here 
presently, I have no doubt. We will wait for them till three, 
and if they do not come by that time, we must go out. And, 
remember, three will be our usual walking hour, till the weather 
becomes too warm. Finish your luncheon quickly, and then 
go and complete your work. I should like everything to be in 
order before your friends come.’ 

Alice began to eat more diligently than before, not raising 
her eyes from her plate. Lady Catharine showed no further 
desire for conversation ; the luncheon concluded as it had be- 
gun, almost in silence, and then Alice once more retired to her 
own room. 

Little remained to be done in arranging it ; but Alice was 
not inclined to be industrious. After the lapse of about twenty 
minutes. Lady Catharine appeared again in the doorway. 

‘ Alice, my dear, have you nearly finished ? I see the Miss 
Cliffords coming down the avenue.’ 

Alice threw down a book which she had been — not reading, 
but idly looking through, and walked about the room, doing 
nothing in reality, though apparently very busy. Lady Catha- 
rine watched her for some seconds, and presently took from her 
hands a workbox, which had been moved three different times 
in the course of a few minutes, and putting it decidedly in the 
centre of the table, said, ‘ There, my dear, that will do ; now 
go to something else.’ A ring at the hall bell was just then 
heard. Lady Catharine looked annoyed. ‘ I am vexed your 
young friends should find you in such disorder ; you are a sad 
dawdle, Alice. I wonder Mrs Carter was not more particular 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


343 


with you ; however' the end of the sentence was left in 

doubt ; but Lady Catharine gave Alice a kiss and went away. 

Alice did really exert herself then. She did not wish, any 
more than Lady Catharine, that the first impression of her room 
should be unfavourable. She contrived to hide the principal 
deficiencies whilst the servant was answering the door, and then 
she sat down in an easy attitude, as if it was quite natural to 
be there, and waited with some degree of impatience for the 
entrance of her friends. 

Ruth and Madeline Clifford, now more than fifteen years of 
age, were but little altered in feature and general appearance 
from what they were at twelve. Ruth's thoughtful blue eye still 
told of a mind which naturally looked beyond the outer surface 
of all which she saw and heard ; her mouth still spoke of energy 
and resolution ; the turn of her head was not entirely free from 
hauteur. She had grown tall and slight ; her manners were 
peculiarly quiet, and marked by a natural grace and refinement 
which no education could have given. And Madeline was still 
the bright-eyed, simple, true-hearted child ; whose words were 
eager, and her laugh full of glee ; whose colour came and went 
with every variation of her quick feelings ; and who seemed to 
have no care, except that those she loved should be happy ; and 
to be about to pass over the troubled sea of life with a light, 
buoyant, hopeful spirit, which trials could not overwhelm. 

Madeline stepped before Ruth as they entered the morning- 
room. She threw her arms round Alice’s neck, kissed her 
heartily, and smiled with unfeigned delight as she looked at the 
wonderful change which the apartment had undergone since she 
was last in it. Ruth’s was a calmer greeting, though not less 
affectionate, and the first observation she made afterwards was 
one scarcely addressed to Alice. It was spoken as her eye 
caught the picture of Mrs Lennox. 

* Yes, Alice, you can never think now that Lady Catharine 
does not love you.’ 

Alice withdrew her hand, which she had laid upon Ruth’s 
shoulder, and with a gesture of impatience pushed aside the box 
in the centre of the table. 

‘ Love me ! oh, yes ! every one says so ; she loves me, of 
course ; and it is very nice. I don’t think any of the girls at 
Mrs Carter’s would have a prettier room than this ; do you think 
they would?' 

^No, not any one, I am sure/ exclaimed Madeline : ‘ and as 


344 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


for our school-room at the Parsonage, it is not in the least to 
be compared to it. But, Alice, you must come there and like 
it, notwithstanding; it will be charming to read and be together 
always.’ 

‘ Yes, if I am allowed,’ replied Alice. 

‘ But you will be. Lady Catharine told papa that she wished 
us to be the greatest friends in the world.’ 

Alice expected Ruth to second Madeline’s words, but Ruth’s 
manner was not quite satisfactory. She was examining a book 
on the table, and appeared not to have heard what passed ; but 
Alice could not help thinking that she must have done so. 

‘ And now, Alice, tell us something about school,’ said Ruth, 
putting down the volume. ‘ Who will be going back next half- 
year ? ’ 

Alice enumerated the names. Many were those of personal 
strangers ; but from time to time Alice had brought back de- 
scriptions which seemed to make them familiar acquaintances. 

‘Janet Harding stays another year,’ she said ; ‘ her mamma 
thinks her so wonderfully improved ; and so she is in some 
things. She never quotes texts now, but she is awfully strict. 
Jessie O’Neile, you know, is gone home for good, because her 
papa is to live in Ireland ; and Ellen Hastings is to be sent to 
another school because her papa is grown poor, and cannot 
afford to keep her at Mrs Carter’s ; and — let me see — Fanny — 
oh ! she is to come back for another half-year to be finished ; 
but she never will be finished, she is just as odd and blunt as 
ever.’ 

‘ And Harriet and Florence,’ said Madeline ; ‘ they are so 
old to be at school still !’ 

‘ They have left now,’ answered Alice. ‘ Florence and I are 
great allies ; she has much more in her than we used to give 
her credit for ; and she is so good-natured.’ 

‘ Good-natured ! ’ repeated Ruth ; ‘ I can fancy that : but as 
for having anything in her besides the Parisian fashions, I don’t 
believe it is possible.’ 

‘ She is to come here to stay, perhaps — at least I am to get 
her here if I can,’ continued Alice ; ‘ Harriet I don’t care much 
for, she is dull undoubtedly ; but Florence is up to anything.’ 

Ruth smiled, and said — 

‘ That is not any great charm, Alice ; she may be up to mis- 
chief.’ Alice made no answer. 

‘ I wish you did not like her,’ said Madeline. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


34S 


* Why?^ and Alice turned round rather sharply. 

‘ Because I don^t, that is all ; and I should like us to like the 
same person.’ 

Again Alice glanced at Ruth, as if expecting to receive a 
similar expression of interest from her ; and again Ruth took 
no notice, and Alice sighed. 

‘ And you are to be very regular, and study a great deal, 
I suppose, Alice 1 ’ inquired Ruth ; ‘ you have books enough. 
I see you have the same edition of Racine that papa 
has given us \ shall you read by yourself, or with Lady 
Catharine ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know : I cannot tell anything yet,’ replied Alice. 

‘ I have done nothing to-day but put my room in order.’ 

‘ Papa means to talk to Lady Catharine about your taking a 
day at the school,’ said Madeline ; ‘ shall you like it ?’ 

‘ Do you take one .?’ asked Alice, evading the question. 

‘ Yes, for the little classes ; and on Sundays, you know, we 
always go. Papa is a great deal at the school now, and has 
the elder girls at home, because of the confirmation.’ 

‘ We are to be confirmed,’ said Ruth, gravely. 

^ And you will be, too, Alice,’ observed Madeline, 

Alice’s cheek flushed with a sudden excitement. 

‘ And I shall be, too ! Who says so 1 ’ 

‘ Lady Catharine ; she and papa were talking about it last 
Sunday.’ 

Alice sat down quickly, and began to move the different 
articles on the table with an air of mingled nervousness and 
absence of mind. Madeline watched her attentively for a few 
seconds, and then going up to her, said, kindly, ‘ Alice, dear, 
something is the matter.’ 

‘ No, nothing ; ’ but Alice went on as before, and still in 
silence. 

Madeline looked at Ruth for an explanation. 

‘ Have we vexed you V said Ruth, affectionately. ‘ We wish 
you would tell us.’ 

Alice looked up sadly. ‘ You have not vexed me, Ruth ; 
that is, it is not your doing ^ but I was thinking of things, I 
don’t know what precisely — a great many things. She is so 
particular — she interferes.’ 

< She ! Lady Catharine?’ asked Madeline. 

‘ Yes. It is very wrong to complain, I know ; don’t say that 
I talked about it ; and she is very kind — she had this room 


^LANETON PARSONAGE. 


346 

quite ready for me when I came home last night. I thought I 
was going to be happy then.^ 

‘ And are you not happy inquired Ruth, with evident sym- 
pathy. 

‘ She interferes,’ repeated Alice. ‘ You two cannot under- 
stand what I mean. Your papa and mamma are not after you 
always.’ 

‘Was Lady Catharine with you all this morning.^’ inquired 
Madeline. 

‘ Not with me, but looking after me. She knew just what I 
was about : and she said something because I was not in the 
drawing-room five minutes before luncheon ; and directly after- 
wards she sent me up-stairs, and told me exactly what I was to 
do. It is the same sort of thing which used to go on in the 
holidays, only it seems worse now I am come home for good.’ 

‘ Perhaps Lady Catharine is particular now, to put you in the 
right way,’ suggested Madeline. 

‘ It is not the being particular ; Mrs Carter was particular — 
it is the manner. But then it is wrong in me to care. I wish 
I did not feel it ; I wish I was some one else ; I wish ’ 

Alice’s glance was involuntarily directed to her mother’s 
picture ; and she stopped, struggling to keep back her tears. 

‘ Mamma will be like your own mamma, Alice, dear,’ began 
Madeline ; but Ruth interrupted her. 

‘ No, Madeline ; we must not say that ; we must not put 
any one before Lady Catharine. And papa always declares 
that she does really love Alice dearly.’ 

‘ Well, then, Alice, by and by you will be accustomed to it, 
and then you will not mind,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Yes, but I shall ; I cannot help it : and I am growing too 
old to be watched in that way ; no one else is. Florence 
Trevelyan does just what she likes at home.’ 

Ruth’s look of compassion changed, at this speech, into one 
of surprise. 

‘ But surely, Alice, Florence Trevelyan is no specimen oi the 
good of doing as one likes.’ 

‘ I don’t know that,’ replied Alice, speaking more cheerfully, 
but not without irritation ; ‘ Florence Trevelyan has a great deal 
more sense, and principle too, than you give her credit for. Mrs 
Carter says she is very much improved.’ 

‘ Really ! ’ exclaimed Ruth ; ‘ I suppose by that she must be 
altered.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


347 

* So you would not believe me/ observed Alice, with an air 
of pique. 

‘ I would believe you in some things, a great many indeed ; 
but about Florence — I think you are fond of her.' 

‘ Perhaps I am ; she is very fond of me,' replied Alice. 

‘ And when persons are very fond of you, Alice, you always 
fancy them perfection.' 

‘ Couleur de rose, as Justine le Vergnier used to say,' re- 
marked Madeline. 

A faint tinge of red flushed Ruth's cheek at this name, and 
she inquired hastily, ‘ Shall you walk this afternoon, Alice ? ' 

‘ By and by, I believe. Do you know that Justine is gone out 
as a governess ? I heard it just before I came away, from 
Signor Berretoni. We have never learned anything else scarcely 
about her since Monsieur left off teaching at Mrs Carter’s. Mrs 
Garter has been extremely strict about her. One of the girls 
told me that Monsieur would have given anything to have had 
her amongst us again.' 

Ruth became quite silent after this speech, and Madeline 
seemed conscious that the subject was a disagreeable one. 
After a little time, however, Ruth said, rather abruptly to Alice, 

* Then Lady Catharine has not mentioned the confirmation to 
you, Alice.' 

‘ No, how should she there has been no time.' 

‘ But she will, certainly,' continued Madeline ; ‘ and it will 
be fixed for you to come to papa to be examined with us. You 
will not mind that, shall you ?' 

A slight restraint was visible in Alice's manner as she replied, 

* Not the examination ; I can answer questions ; but there are 
some things — Ruth, are you going to be very good after you are 
confirmed.-" 

Ruth coloured crimson, and Madeline answered for her. 

' Ruth is very good now ; a great deal better than you can 
guess, Alice.' 

Just then Marsham knocked at the door. She came up with 
a message. 

‘ Lady Catharine was gone to prepare for her walk ; she 
wished Miss Lennox to accompany her, and the Miss Cliffords 
could go with them to the Parsonage.' 

* Only to the Parsonage!' repeated Alice. thought we 
should have gone all together somewhere. And it is so hot for 
walking !' 


348 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


She threw open the window wider, and declared there was not 
a breath of air, although at the same moment a soft breeze was 
fanning her cheek. Then she put a finishing stroke to the 
arrangement of the furniture, altered the order of the books, and 
again came back to the window. 

‘ You will not dislike going out when you are dressed,’ said 


Ruth. 


Alice would not take the hint. Madeline offered to fetch her 
bonnet and scarf, but was told that no one except Marsham 
knew where to find them ; and Alice still delayed, leaning her 
head out of the window, and sighing at the heat. 

Marsham came again, with the information that Lady Catha- 
rine was waiting. 

Alice’s exclamation of impatience was accompanied by a 
complaint, that she was always worried and not allowed a 
moment’s freedom ; but this time neither Madeline nor Ruth 
sympathised with her. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


UTH, are you veiy much interested in your book said 



J-v Mr Clifford, as he came into the drawing-room at the 
Parsonage, that evening. 

Ruth was alone. She laid down the volume, and answered, 
with a smile, ‘ Papa, that means I am to talk.’ 

‘ Well, perhaps it does. Why did you leave all the con- 
versation to Madeline just now, when she was telling us of 
your visit to the Manor ? ’ 

‘ Madeline always knows what to say,’ replied Ruth ; ‘ and I 
do not.’ 

‘ But in this case there could have been no difficulty ; it was 
merely a straightforward history of fact.’ 

Ruth paused, as if she did not quite agree. ‘ I don’t think 
it is quite straightforward, papa ; at least, the facts puzzle me : 
that is why I do not talk.’ 

‘ Because you do not understand your own feelings about 
Alice ? ’ asked Mr Clifford, in a tone of doubtful inquiry. 

Ruth laughed. ‘ Papa, you guess now just in the wonderful 
way you did when I was a little child. Do you think Alice is 
my friend ’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


549 


‘ All, Ruth ! that is the secret ; I was sure of it. You have 
been examining your feelings, and fretting yourself about them 
ever since your return.^ 

‘ I ought to be certain,’ said Ruth. ‘ I have known Alice all 
my life nearly.’ 

^ Known her in a degree — outwardly.’ 

^ But we were at school together, papa ; and girls at school 
know each other intimately.’ 

‘ That was some time ago, my dear Ruth ; and a little time, 
at your age, will work great changes. Possibly, you may have 
been advancing in one direction, Alice in another. No wonder, 
then, that when you meet you do not thoroughly comprehend 
each other.’ 

‘ We have met during the holidays,’ persisted Ruth. 

‘ Yes, but at such seasons Alice did not, as it were, come in 
contact with you. She was more a visitor than a home com- 
panion ; the trial of your friendship will be now.’ 

Ruth repeated the word ‘ friendship ’ in an under-tone ; and, 
after a few moments’ thought, said, ‘ Papa, I do not think I 
shall ever form a friendship for Alice ; — not what I call friend- 
ship.’ 

Mr Clifford smiled. ‘ And your notion of friendship, Ruth, 
is — what ? ’ 

‘ Ah, papa ! I know you will laugh. Old people — no, not 
old people, but grown-up people, always do, when girls talk of 
friendship.’ 

‘ No, indeed, my dear child,’ and Mr Clifford became grave 
in an instant, ‘ I am the last person to laugh at anything in- 
volving such serious consequences. I merely smiled at the 
recollection of some romantic absurdities I have heard upon 
the subject ; but they are not likely to be yours, Ruth ; so tell 
me, what is your idea of friendship ? ’ 

‘ I don’t think I can explain ; I don’t think I quite know 
myself — that is, I can feel it, but I cannot put it into words. 
Mamma would be like a friend, only she is so much older, and 
so much better, and she is mamma.” ’ 

‘ And Miss Vernon, what of her ? ’ 

‘ Mary Vernon ; yes, she would be a real friend ; but she is 
so far away, and she is going to be married ; I never have 
anything to do with her except by letters ; and that is not 
satisfactory, though I like having her letters excessively.’ 

* And Madeline ? ’ 


35 ^ 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


^ O papa ! Madeline is myself ; there is no one in all the 
world like Madeline — no one could be. She is not my friend 
at all.’ 

‘ Only your sister/ said Mr Clifford, with a half smile, which 
changed into an expression of fond interest, as Madeline, fol- 
lowing her mother into the room, and drawing a footstool to 
the side of Ruth’s chair, leaned her head upon her lap, and 
whispered — 

^ Now, go on talking ; I always like to hear you and papa talk.’ 

Ruth smoothed the fair hair which clustered round her 
sister’s face, and imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, and then 
turning to her mother, said, ‘ Mamma, it is you who must ex- 
plain ; you always understand. What do I mean by a friend.?’ 

‘ And why cannot Alice Lennox be Ruth’s friend ? ’ continued 
Mr Clifford. 

‘ We should have reached that point, only we were obliged 
to define friendship first of alL’ 

‘ Ruth’s notion of friendship is of a high, pure feeling,’ re- 
plied Mrs Clifford ; ‘ respect as well as love.’ 

‘ Yes, mamma, yes, exactly ; that is just it : and I don’t 
think I can respect Alice. She is very good-natured, I would 
not be unldnd, I do like her very much, but sometimes — 
Maddy, you know ’ 

‘ Alice wishes to do right,’ said Madeline, sitting upright, 
and speaking energetically. 

‘ Wishes ! but she does not do it ; she never did, that I 
can remember. It was the same at school ; she was always 
wishing.’ 

‘ Which is at least one point in her favour,’ said Mrs Clifford, 
gently. 

‘ Yes ; but dear mamma, it is so tiresome to be with persons 
who do nothing but wish. It used to provoke me at school to 
hear Alice complaining of herself, and then to see her idle away 
her time just as much as ever/ 

‘ Patience ! Ruth,’ said Mr Qifford ; ‘ we need it ourselves.’ 

‘ Yes, papa, of course ; but for a friend, patience does not 
seem the right thing. One would like some one to make one 
better.’ 

Mrs Qifford turned to Madeline. ‘ What do you say, Made- 
line, my love ; is not Alice your friend either.?’ 

‘ I don’t know, mamma ; I never think whether she is or not 
She is different from other people, more like a relation.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


351 

* But it is not a matter of course to like one’s relations/ ob- 
served Ruth, quickly. 

‘ And Alice is cast off, then,’ said Mr Clifford. There 
was melancholy in the tone of his voice, which Ruth per- 
ceived.. 

* Papa, do you think I am wrong ?’ she asked. 

* It would be hard to say that, my dear. I should be very 
sorry for you to have low ideas of friendship ; yet I feel for 
Alice, she is so lonely.’ 

‘ But, papa, surely you would not wish me to care for any 
one who has not right principles ? ’ 

* There are different degrees in what you term caring, my 
dear Ruth. For your own sake I may be quite contented that 
you feel as you do.’ 

* But Ruth would make her good/ exclaimed Madeline ; ‘ be- 
cause she makes every one good.’ 

Ruth’s eyes sparkled brightly for an instant. 

Mr Clifford watched her attentively. ‘ It is as well, perhaps, 
that things should be as they are,’ he said, after a short silence. 
‘ It is a great trial for us all to be constantly and affectionately 
associated with those we cannot thoroughly respect. Ten years 
hence, Rilth, we may hope that you will be able to take an in- 
terest in such persons, without injury to yourself.’ 

‘ Alice will be different after she is confirmed,’ observed 
Madeline. 

‘ No, my dear Madeline,’ said Mr Clifford ; ^ Alice will 
not be different after her confirmation, unless she is different 
before it. Confirmation is what the word implies, a fixing or 
strengthening ; but there must be a principle first of all to be 
fixed.’ 

‘ Alice had a right principle given her once,’ said Ma- 
deline. 

* Undoubtedly; but it may have been weakened, or, to speak 
more truly, the Holy Spirit may have been resisted.’ 

‘ That has been the case with us all,’ said Madeline. 

* In a measure, my love, at times ; but there is a vast differ- 
ence between persons who seem to live very much the same 
kind of lives. It is a difference in the will — not the wish 
merely, but the will ; and it is the latter which is strengthened 
at confirmation. Almost all the young people who intend to 
come before the bishop, wish by and by to be good ; but I 
am afraid there are comparatively very few who really will it.’ 


352 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


Madeline turned to her mamma, who was standing by her, 
listening to the conversation, and, in an under-voice, said, 
‘ Mamma, do you think I have the will V 

Mrs Clifford’s quiet answer, ‘ I trust so, my child/ might 
have appeared cold to some ; but it was the smile, the look of 
contentment and hope which Madeline required, and w'hich 
satisfied her. 

Ruth was leaning back in her chair whilst this conversation 
was passing, seemingly engrossed in her own thoughts. Mr 
Clifford sat down by her, and took up a book. Mrs Clifford 
prepared the tea, and Madeline went to fetch her work for the 
evening. Still Ruth was silent ; and when at length she was 
awakened from her fit of abstraction by Madeline’s offering her 
some bread and butter, she did not tell what she had been 
thinking about. After the tea-things were removed, Mr Clifford 
went to his study, and Ruth prepared as usual to read aloud. 
Perhaps she was sleepy — perhaps the book was not interesting. 
Certainly she did not seem to take much interest in it, and 
made many mistakes. Mrs Clifford proposed music towards 
the close of the evening, and Ruth was sent to the study to 
know if her papa could come in. 

‘ Not to-night, my dear,’ replied Mr Clifford, as she delivered 
her message. 

He did not raise his eyes fi'om his writing. Ruth lingered 
in the doorway. 

* Presently, papa — please do. It is much more pleasant to 
play when you are there. 

‘ O Ruth ! is it you.?’ and Mr Clifford looked up. ‘ I fan- 
cied it was Madeline. No, I am afraid I cannot possibly come 
to-night ; I have not half finished my sermon.’ 

‘ But there will be time to-morrow, dear papa. I wish you 
would.’ 

Ruth advanced to enforce her petition by a kiss. 

‘ It is a confirmation sermon, Ruth ; I must not write it in a 
hurry.* 

Mt is always the confirmation now,’ began Ruth ; but she 
stopped and coloured. 

‘ Would you have it anything else, my dear child ? ’ 

‘ No, papa, of course not. I know it must be ; but when it 
is over I think I shall be glad.’ 

^ And we may hope you will have reason to be so,’ answered 
Mr Clifford, very gravely. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


353 

Ruth’s reply was in an altered tone. ‘ Papa, I wish I never 
thought of serious things lightly.’ 

‘ Never speak of them lightly, my dear, that is the first step ; 
and confirmation is of such great importance — a moment’s 
thought upon the subject would always check you.’ Mr Clifford 
took up his pen ; but still Ruth did not offer to go. 

‘ Papa,’ she said, after some hesitation, ‘ do you really think 
I could be of any use to Alice ? ’ 

Mr Clifford smiled, but it was not quite a smile of satisfac- 
tion. ‘ I do not know, mytidear. I would rather you should 
not think about it.’ 

‘ I should like to do her good,’ continued Ruth ; ‘ Madeline 
believes I could.’ 

Mr Clifford pushed aside his writing as he replied, ‘ My 
dear Ruth, we do good to others by doing good to ourselves. 
You, of all people, must remember this.’ 

‘ Because I am proud,’ said Ruth ; and the colour deepened 
on her cheek. 

‘ Yes ; because you are naturally proud, and have a great 
desire of influence and power. If this temptation is ever to be 
subdued, the struggle must begin at once.’ 

‘And I must not think about Alice, then said Ruth. 

‘ Think about her in setting a good example, trying to make 
her happy, and giving her an interest in your pursuits ; but 
leave the result. Alice is in far wiser hands than either yours 
or mine. 

‘ I do not think I quite understand,’ said Ruth. 

‘ It is the difference,’ replied Mr Clifford, ‘ between making 
it your chief business to induce her to do her duty, or to induce 
yourself to do your own There are persons who are called 
upon to lead others — clergymen, parents, masters and mistresses 
of families, and teachers. You are not placed in any such 
responsible situation. At your age there is but one thing to 
be attended to — your own heart.’ 

Ruth stood in silent thought for a few moments. At length 
she said, ‘ It is so hard to know about one’s own heart. I do 
a great many bad things ; but I cannot always feel sorry. 
Madeline is always sorry.’ 

‘ Madeline is blest with a tender conscience,’ replied Mr 
Clifford ; ‘ but she has her difficulties as well as you, my dear 
Ruth. Still it is, I own, very sad to know that we ought to 
feel our sins, and yet not to do so.’ 

z 


354 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


‘ I cannot make myself feel/ said Ruth. 

‘ But you can pray, my dear child. Do you remember the 
collect for Ash -Wednesday ? It is particularly applicable to 
persons who desire to be penitent, and yet are conscious that 
they are not so ; and, besides, you can practise yourself 
in self-examination — that is, not merely looking into your 
own heart, but into the law of God. The first step in the 
knowledge of what we are, is the sense of what we ought to 
be.’ 

‘ Perfect ! ’ said Ruth, in a tone of much seriousness. 

‘ Yes ; perfect, even as our Father which is in heaven is 
perfect,’ ' 

‘ But it is impossible to be so now,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Impossible in actual practice ; but not impossible in the 
will and endeavour.’ 

‘ Only, if we can never succeed,’ continued Ruth, with some 
hesitation, ‘ why should we attempt it .^ ’ 

‘ I will answer your question by what is called analogy,’ re- 
plied Mr Cliftbrd. ‘ When a great artist sits down to draw, 
what is his object ?’ 

‘ To do the best,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Yes, the best possible, without imperfection ; and yet he is 
straining after that which he can never reach. So when a man 
devotes himself to science, his wish is to know all things con- 
nected with it. But the works of God are infinite : it is not in 
his nature to understand them ; yet who blames him for trying 
to do so It is only in -religion, Ruth, that we are contented 
with anything short of perfection.’ 

Ruth replied that srhe did not think she was contented. 

‘ I suspect you are more so than you imagine,’ observed her 
father : ‘ and, my love, since we are talking upon the subject, I 
would ask you, whenever you are inclined to dwell upon the 
hope of doing good to others, to end by thinking how perfect 
you ought to be yourself.’ 

‘ I do think about it very often,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Yet think about it still more ; carry out the idea into details. 
Try, for instance, to understand in little minute particulars, what 
is involved in the two great duties of love to God and love of 
your neighbour ; all which tends to keep up a high standard of 
goodness is especially necessary for you, more peculiarly now, 
as a preparation for confirmation, when you are about to renew 
a sacred promise.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


355 


‘ I can never quite understand why it is right to promise so 
much/ said Ruth, ‘ since no one can perform it/ 

‘ When you are older, my love, and have thought more 
deeply, you will comprehend better that it would be inconsist- 
ent with the perfection of God to allow any promise to be made 
to Him that is not complete. But I think, even now, you will 
see that we act in the same way ourselves. A wife vows per- 
fect obedience to her husband ; a subject swears to be entirely 
loyal to his sovereign. No one says in these instances, “ I am 
not perfect, and I will only engage to keep a part of the vow ; ” 
but all right-minded persons promise — that is, they own to 
having the will, and that will is accepted. If this is the case 
with our fellow- creatures, much more may we hope it will be 
with our merciful God.’ 

‘ I think I have the will,’ said Ruth. 

* I trust you have, my dear ; yet I should be glad to know 
you had thought a good deal about it. We can only know 
ourselves by self-examination ; comparing our conduct with 
the requirements of God. When we see our duties, we see our 
faults. I wish you would spend some little time, as I said, in 
imagining what your every-day conduct would be — how it would 
differ from what it is at present — if you were fully to perform 
those two duties, love to God and to your neighbour. I think 
it would be of use to you — of more use ’ — and Mr Clifford 
smiled gravely — ‘ than trying to do good to Alice.’ 

Ruth’s face was, for an instant, clouded. ^ I should like to 
do good to myself and Alice too,’ she said. 

‘ But, my love, trust me, till you have fulfilled the first task 
thoroughly, you will never be fit for the second.’ 

The truth of this assertion Ruth would not dispute, and she 
left the room. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


OME days aftenvards Lady Catharine and Alice were 



O breakfasting together at the Manor at eight o’clock. The 
room they occupied was that in which Alice, in by-gone days, 
used to spend her pleasant Sundays. It was a south room, 
immediately under Alice’s own apartment, and it had been re- 
touched — it could scarcely be called re-furnished — within the 


356 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


last few months. Some old-fashioned chairs had been re- 
moved, and a cumbrous cabinet ; and there was a new book- 
case occupying the lower end. Similar changes had taken 
place in many parts of the home — only in one respect 
there was no alteration. The closed rooms were still closed, 
and more carefully than before ; they were never now unlocked 
except at stated periods. Alice saw, but she could not appre- 
ciate the changes made. There are some minds which in- 
stinctively cling to early attachments and acquired habits, with 
a tenacity which makes it a positive pain to break from them 
even in trifles. Such was Lady Catharine Hyde’s. The sight 
of every object in its accustomed place, the punctual recurrence 
of the same duties at the same hours, were necessary to her. 
It might not have been desirable that such things should be of 
importance ; but the error, if it can be called such, had been 
increased, if not actually occasioned, by the circumstances in 
which she had been placed. Left in loneliness and great 
sorrow at an early period of life. Lady Catharine had been 
thrown back upon herself, her own resources, her own wishes. 
Excessive precision and punctuality became a business to her. 
They gave her something to think of and to do ; they were 
motives for exertion ; and in themselves, when not carried to 
excess (and there was no excess when she first began rigor- 
ously to practise them), they were undoubtedly useful. It was 
natural that one who moved so little in society, should learn to 
expect her will in such cases to be a law. Lady Catharine 
Hyde hardly knew what it was to be disobeyed, and she was 
never led to imagine, by anything she saw or heard, that her 
peculiar habits and fancies could be burdensome to other per- 
sons. She believed that her mode of life was calculated, by 
its quietness and order, to render Alice good and happy ; and, 
feeling herself surrounded by all that was needful for her own 
comfort, it was not easy to imagine what more a young girl 
could require. And yet Lady Catharine did think much, 
whether by any alteration she could give Alice pleasure. Al- 
though it did not suit her to ask the opinion of any other 
person upon the subject, she did the very best, according to 
her own judgment. The arrangement of Alice’s room cost her 
much thought, and this was, in a measure, valued ; but the 
changes in other parts of the house, which to Lady Catharine 
were of much consequence, were almost unheeded by Alice. 
So it was in many ways : that v/hich to Lady Catharine was a 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


357 


considerable effort, even an annoyance, was taken as a matter 
of course by Alice. Lady Catharine was peculiarly unselfish. 
Alice was bent upon her own gratification ; and yet, when 
Alice made her complaint to Madeline and Ruth, a stranger 
might have supposed that she was suffering under constant 
domestic tyranny, and this without any actual e.xaggeration of 
the facts. 

‘ My dear,’ said Lady Catharine, on this morning, as Alice 
sat down to the breakfast table, and began to pour some hot 
milk into the small, deep cups of oriental china, which Lady 
Catharine had never been prevailed upon to exchange for 
modern breakfast cups : ‘ you were rather after your time this 
morning; did Marsham call you properly.?’ 

‘ The prayer bell had only just rung when I came down,’ 
replied Alice. 

‘ I beg your pardon, my dear ; I waited at least seven 
minutes ; I reckoned by my watch. Don’t let it happen 
again.’ 

‘ No, ma’am.’ 

‘ And, Alice, one thing I wanted to say to you particularly ; 
you manage to keep Barnes late with the letters — I saw him 
actually running to the post-office yesterday.’ 

Alice could not refrain from a smile as she thought of any 
one belonging to Lady Catharine’s household committing the 
grave offence of running in the village. 

^ The post goes out earlier than it did,’ she replied. 

‘ Yes ; but that ought to make no difference to you ; you 
ought to be ready in time, for you have the whole morning to 
yourself.’ 

^ I had several letters to write yesterday,’ continued Alice. 

Lady Catharine looked annoyed. 

* My dear, I wish you could learn to take reproof better ; it 
really seems as if you could never be in the wrong.’ 

Alice was silent. Lady Catharine was beginning to notice 
her silence. She pondered upon it in her own mind, wondering 
what the cause could be, and then went on — 

‘What makes you write so many letters, my dear.?’ 

‘ They are to my schoolfellows,’ replied Alice. ‘ I promised 
I would write.’ 

‘ To some, certainly you may.’ 

Alice raised her head for an instant in surprise ; then began 
sipping her coffee quickly. 


358 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


She had never realised the notion of Lady Catharine’s inter- 
fering with her correspondence. 

* We shall see, my dear,’ continued Lady Catharine in a 
voice which she meant to be peculiarly encouraging ; ‘ perhaps 
I may not object ; you shall show me some of their answers.’ 

Alice grew rather uncomfortable. She had a most unpleasant 
recollection of a habit of Florence Trevelyan’s of calling Lady 
Catharine ‘ Juno.’ 

‘ Is Miss Vernon one of your correspondents .^’ inquired Lady 
Catharine. ‘ I should have no objection to her.’ 

‘ She is Ruth’s friend,’ answered Alice ; ‘ she has left school 
a long time.’ 

‘ Oh, yes ; I remember now. But tell me, my dear — I really 
want to know — what are the names of your friends 

‘ I write to Jessie O’Neile sometimes,’ answered Alice, de- 
sirous to put forward the acquaintance which was the least likely 
to be found fault with. 

‘ Miss O’Neile : that is one. And whom besides ?’ 

‘ Last holidays I wrote to Fanny Wilson,’ continued Alice. 

‘ Miss O’Neile and Miss Wilson. I have heard them 
mentioned. I can inquire about them through Mrs Carter. 
Well.?’ 

‘ And sometimes — I have not written often ’ 

Lady Catharine’s eye was fixed upon Alice, and the name was 
uttered hurriedly. 

‘ Sometimes I write to Florence Trevelyan.’ 

‘Oh! Trevelyan!’ 

To Alice’s surprise Lady Catharine’s face quite brightened at 
the name. 

‘ I know something of them — the Trevelyans of Cromer Court. 
Mrs Carter told me that two of the daughters were with her. An 
aunt of theirs, Mrs De Lacy, has lately come into this neighbour- 
hood. I am sorry you are not more intimate.’ 

Alice was upon the point of saying that she was very intimate, 
but she could not openly and at once contradict herself. 

‘ I will inquire about the others you named,’ pursued Lady 
Catharine, with unusual animation. ‘ I shall like you to have 
friends of your own age ; and if these young ladies are desirable 
companions, you can ask them to come and stay with you by 
and by.’ 

‘ Thank you, ma’am,’ replied Alice, coldly. She did not 
•feel ungrateful, but she was provoked with herself. If she had 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


359 

only spoken out boldly, Florence Trevelyan might have been 
invited almost immediately. 

Lady Catharine had made what for her was a great advance 
towards sympathy, and was vexed at Alice’s apparent shyness. 
Still she made another attempt to overcome it. 

‘ You can tell me, I daresay, my dear, what Miss O’Neile and 
Miss Wilson are like. What age are they 

Alice told, and made a few general observations on their 
appearance and dispositions. 

‘ Miss Trevelyan must be older, I imagine, from what Mrs 
Carter said,’ observed Lady Catharine. 

Alice answered that Florence was nearly seventeen. 

‘ And she has a sister ? ’ 

‘ Yes, ma’am, one.’ 

The answer was short, for Alice particularly disliked talking 
about Florence Trevelyan just then. 

‘ Ah ! then, I suppose that is the reason you did not get on 
with her as well as with the others ; she must have been too 
old.’ 

Alice was becoming vexed at what she felt to be her own 
disagreeable manner. It was unusual for Lady Catharine to 
ask so many questions, and under other circumstances Alice 
would have been softened by the interest shown into being 
communicative. Now she could only think how stupid she 
had been herself in not saying that Florence Trevelyan was her 
friend ; and how provoking it was in Lady Catharine so to in- 
terpret her few words as to decide that they were not of an age 
to suit each other. 

‘ Well ! if Miss Trevelyan should come into the neighbour- 
hood to visit her aunt, I shall hope to become acquainted with 
her,’ continued Lady Catharine. 

Alice said, with an air of indifference, she hoped that Flor- 
ence would come ; and then the conversation was stopped, for 
the butler came in with the letters. Three were laid before 
Lady Catharine, one before Alice ; Lady Catharine was imme- 
diately engrossed in her correspondence, and Alice opened a 
letter from Florence Trevelyan with some degree of trepidation 
as to the style of its contents. 

But there was not any great reason to be uncomfortable. 
Florence Trevelyan had not remained so long under Mrs 
Carter’s care without deriving benefit. 

She was, as Alice had said, improved ; her very moderate 


36 o 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


abilities had been made the most of ; and her manners and 
habits refined. When with sensible judicious companions, she 
could be apparently sensible and judicious too ; or at least 
not remarkably the reverse. She was what is called very 
passable in society ; lady-like and tolerably accomplished ; 
with sufficient information to enable her to enter upon 
the ordinary topics of the day without committing any great 
blunders. 

On more important points she was altered much in the same 
degree. Increasing age had given her increasing steadiness ; 
her position in the school, which naturally was raised as time 
passed on, made her more watchful over others, and more 
guarded in her own conduct. Though she often talked fool- 
ishly and loved dress, and gave way to vanity, it was in a quiet 
way which people in general were not likely to remark ; and 
which even Mrs Carter sometimes failed to discover. Florence 
Trevelyan, when she left school, was like hundreds of her age 
and sex who have received the ordinary advantages of educa- 
tion. The usual remark made upon her was, that she was a 
nice, lady-like girl, and more agreeable than Harriet, whose 
temper was not so good, and whose manners were not so lively. 
Her letter was a transcript of her mind ; smooth and well- 
sounding, with nothing in it ; the handwriting pointed and 
delicate enough to pass current as a lady’s, but not giving any 
indication of character. 

The first part of the letter was written from her home. It 
mentioned the weather and the state of the roads, her mamma’s 
health, and the arrival of her brothers from school. Also the 
fact that she had received a present from an uncle, and had 
been invited to a young party. The postscript, written on a 
loose half-sheet, was, however, dated differently. It was from 
Sheldon, a village about three miles from Laneton. Florence 
was staying there with her aunt. She wrote in great delight, 
and with most warm expressions. The near vicinity to Lane- 
ton had brought out all her real or supposed affection for Alice. 
It was now, ‘ My dearest Alice ; ’ nothing could be more charm- 
ing than the prospect of their meeting ; Mrs De Lacy was en- 
chanted also. They would be together constantly. In fact, 
the chief object of Florence’s visit to the neighbourhood was, 
she said, the prospect of seeing her ‘ darling Alice.’ At the 
conclusion, Alice was reminded that she had not kept to her 
promise of writing every week ; and it was hinted, in terms of 


LANE TON PARS ON A GE, 36 1 

gentle reproach, that she seemed likely to be the first to break 
the vow they had made of lasting friendship. 

The letter was a very fair letter ; there was really nothing 
objectionable in it : no mention of ‘Juno but it perplexed 
Alice extremely. The idea of lasting friendship and corres- 
pondence every week was not at all compatible with her profes- 
sion of writing but seldom, and her air of indifference ; and they 
were just the points which Lady Catharine was likely to notice. 

‘Well ! my dear ! ’ said Lady Catharine, laying down her 
letter, and looking at Alice as if expecting to receive something. 
Alice held Florence’s letter under the table. ‘ You have heard 
from some one, surely, my dear 1 ’ 

‘ Yes, ma’am.’ Alice hesitated ; then, what she considered a 
bright thought — alas ! should we not rather call all thoughts 
but those of simple truth most dark and evil ones — struck her. 
She placed the letter before Lady Catharine, and crushing the 
postscript together, managed to put it into her pocket. 

‘ A very tolerable letter this,’ said Lady Catharine, as she 
finished reading it. ‘ Very fairly expressed ; neatly written ; 
not much in it, certainly ; but still, as you are only commonly 
intimate, I suppose there is not much to be said. I daresay 
you will be in no great hurry to answer it. Young ladies seldom 
care to give up much of their time except to their particular 
friends. Which do you like best, Alice — Miss Wilson or Miss 
O’Neile 1 ’ 

Alice did not know ; she was equally indifferent to both. 

‘ Put the letter by carefully,’ continued Lady Catharine. ‘You 
should have a place in your desk for answered letters and un- 
answered letters. Or, stay, I will give you a little case for them, 
marked. You will like that, my dear ? ’ 

There was sometimes a tone in Lady Catharine’s ‘ my dear,’ 
which touched Alice deeply. It spoke of such real kindness, 
such hearty interest ; — it was one of the few signs of her deep 
affection which almost unknowingly escaped her. Now it 
sounded in Alice’s ear as a reproach for a slight deception, the 
result of a want of moral courage ; for words true in the 
letter, but not in the spirit. Alice had not written often to 
Florence ; but she had promised that she would do so. She 
said, ‘ Thank you,’ for Lady Catharine’s offer of a case for her 
letters, but it was not hearty gratitude, and Lady Catharine was 
once more chilled. A last attempt was made for conversation 
Lady Catharine mentioned the confirmation. She spoke of it very 


362 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


seriously, and vijith considerable tenderness towards Alice. She 
did not indeed inquire whether Alice was desirous of being con- 
firmed ; that was taken as a matter of course ; but she ex- 
pressed most warm interest in her welfare, and begged that if 
difficulties should arise in her mind, they might be brought before 
her without reserve. Then she said, ‘ You are very silent, my 
love ; have you any objection to being confirmed 1 ’ 

Poor Alice ! she would have suffered severe bodily pain to 
avoid answering that question ; for how much was involved in it ! 

Confirmation was a veiy important rite. Lady Catharine had 
said. Yes; Alice knew well that. She knew the awfulness of 
her baptismal vows ; she knew the trial implied in the solemn 
engagements to renounce the works of the devil and the vanities 
of the world ; to believe the articles of the Christian faith, and to 
keep the commandments of God through the course, of — it might 
be — a long life. Alice was not ignorant of her responsibilities. 
She understood them too well for her own peace of mind ; for 
conscience whispered, in answer to Lady Catharine’s question, 
that she was' not willing to undertake them ; that she would fain 
live a little longer to the world and to herself ; that she would 
indulge her vanity, and follow the bent of her own self-will for a 
little while, and then — but Alice did not think deliberately of the 
future. She took it for granted that she should be good some 
day or other, in some way or other. She supposed that religion 
would come to her by and by, as a matter of course. Lady 
Catharine was religious, so was Mrs Carter, so were Mr and 
Mrs Clifford. Their right principles seemed to be always at 
hand, and Alice could not see why at last it should not be the 
same with her. To be religious without effort was her desire. 
Confirmation implied an effort — a resolution. Alice was no 
hypocrite. She did not desire to make the effort, therefore she 
did not desire to be confirmed. Yet, in answer to Lady 
Catharine’s inquiry, she said that she had no objection. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Y OU must wish mamma many happy returns of the day, 
Alice : it is her birthday.’ 

This was Madeline’s first speech to Alice on the thirtieth of 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


363 

June. They were to spend the day together at the Parsonage. 
Alice’s countenance was a great contrast to Madeline’s on this 
morning. Madeline was the picture of light-heartedness ; Alice 
was evidently discomposed. She returned Madeline’s greeting, 
and inquired for Ruth. 

‘ Oh, Ruth is with papa at the school, arranging the books. 
It is a holiday, and so they are very busy putting everything in 
order.’ 

< I should have thought Ruth would have had a holiday too, 
on her mamma’s birthday,’ remarked Alice. 

Mt is a holiday, in fact, for her ; she likes being at the school 
very much, for she is always glad to help papa ; and I have been 
with mamma in the store-room. Ruth thought she should be 
back by the time you came.’ 

‘ I imagined I should have found her here,’ said Alice, in a 
tone of vexation. 

Madeline could not help perceiving Alice’s manner, and began 
to think it would have been better for her to have remained at 
the Manor, if she was not inclined to be pleased. She proposed 
that Alice should go up-stairs to take off her bonnet, and Alice 
agreed, though still in the same moody way. Madeline went to 
speak to her mamma, and during her absence Alice occupied 
herself in looking at the books that were on the table. They 
were a Bible and Prayer Book ; one or two upon confirmation 
and the Holy Communion, and others of a serious kind. A 
school register also was there, and with it were some little books 
for school rewards. Alice took them up and put them down 
with an air of disgust. Then she sighed, and returned to them 
again. They excited apparently disagreeable thoughts, yet still 
they engaged her attention. 

It was some little time before Madeline came back, and when 
she did, it was only to make an apology, and beg Alice to go 
down-stairs into the school -room alone for a few minutes. She 
would be with her as soon as possible, but she wished to do 
something for her mamma first. 

Alice did not attend to Madeline’s request ; and as soon as 
the door closed, she sat down and recommenced her examination 
of the book. One was a volume of sacred poetry ; the names 
of both Ruth and Madeline were written in it, and it was full 
of pencil marks. Alice saw that it was much read, and there- 
fore she supposed much liked ; but why it should be was a 
mystery to her. It was not what she called pretty poetrj^j the 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


'364 

lines did not all flow easily, they did not catch the ear at the 
first sound ; and there was some difficulty in reaching the 
meaning. Alice read over some verses several times before 
she could entirely understand them. Still, the book interested 
her. She liked to guess why the marked passages were pre- 
ferred ; to try and find out which were Ruth’s favourites and 
which IMadeline’s. Insensibly she began to apply some to her- 
self, if not as the expression of hei own feelings, at least as 
saying what she would wish to feel ; and whilst she did 
this, she forgot her own cares, her self-will, and vanity, and 
discontent, and dwelt, as it were, in another and a better 
world. 

And Alice knew that better world to be also the true world. 
When she read of heaven and eternity, angels and saints, and 
of Him, the Lord of all, who had redeemed her, she knew that 
she was reading of realities which must endure for ever. A 
quieter, more solemn feeling stole over her ; bitterness was 
mixed with it, but she did not strive, as before, to escape from 
it. Minutes went by quickly, and at length Alice was roused 
from her occupation by the voice of Ruth, who said, as she 
peeped over her shoulder — 

‘ I am glad you are looking at that — don’t you like it exces- 
sively ? ’ 

Alice closed the volume instantly. ‘ How long you have been, 
Ruth ! I have been waiting here such a time ! ’ 

‘ 1 1 was rather naughty of me,’ said Ruth, playfully ; ‘ but I 
could not help it ; papa and I were so busy. And, you know, I 
could not make a stranger of you. But where is Madeline ? ’ 

‘ She went away to your mamma.’ 

‘ And left you here alone ? Really, she ought not to have 
done that ; I quite depended on her taking care of you.’ 

‘ Madeline did what she could,’ replied Alice, ‘ and she 
begged me to go down-stairs ; only I preferred staying here.’ 

‘ There is not much to amuse you here,’ said Ruth, looking 
round the room. ‘ You are not very fond of grave books, 
Alice ? ’ 

‘ Yes, I am, sometimes — some books — I like this one,’ she 
added, with a slight hesitation, pointing to the small volume 
which she had been reading. 

Ruth took up the book, and turned over the pages, * Yes, 
she said, thoughtfully, ‘ if one were only as good as this would 
make one ! I wish ’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 365 

But Alice interrupted her with a question : ‘ What arc we 
Coing to do to-day, Ruth ? ^ 

Ruth looked a little startled at her abruptness, but mentioned 
several plans ; amongst them a walk to a neighbouring village, 
to see a new church which was building there ; or, if they 
chose, to call on a friend who lived at a distance beyond, and 
to take the pony with them, and ride in turn. Alice did not seem 
to take a particular interest in any suggestion, but Ruth went 
on planning most good-naturedly. Presently, Alice said — 

‘ That church at Redford is not far from Mrs De Lacy’s, is 
it ? ’ 

‘ No,’ replied Ruth ; ‘ but what makes you ask ? ’ 

‘ Mrs De Lacy is Florence Trevelyan’s aunt,’ said Alice. 

‘ Is she indeed ? I never heard so before.’ 

‘ She is her aunt,’ repeated Alice ; ‘ and,’ she added, after an 
instant’s pause, ‘ Florence is coming ; she is come — perhaps 
she may be there.’ 

‘ I should rather like to see her again,’ observed Ruth, care- 
lessly. ‘ Did you say she was come, or coming ? ’ 

‘ Coming — come, I think ; — yes, I believe she is there,’ re- 
plied Alice. 

< And I suppose you will ask Lady Catharine to take you over 
to see her,’ said Ruth, ‘ since you are such great allies.’ 

‘ O Ruth ! ’ Aliie stopped and coloured. 

‘ O Ruth ! wdiat ? ’ repeated Ruth, laughing ; then, seeing 
that Alice appeared really uncomfortable, she added, ‘ is there 
any harm in saying you are great allies ? ’ 

‘ I would rather you should not say so before Lady Catha- 
rine,’ answered Alice, more boldly. 

‘ What ? she will think “ allies ” not quite a young lady’s 
word.’ 

‘ No ; nonsense, she is not so particular as that ; but, Ruth, 
I am afraid to say things to you, I am afraid you will not 
understand them.’ 

Ruth drew up her head. ‘ Certainly, if you think that, Alice, 
you had better keep your secrets to yourself.’ She turned aside 
and said no more. 

Alice regarded her attentively without appearing irritated. 
On the contrary, there was an expression of interest and respect 
in her face. Ruth went to the dressing-table, and taking off her 
bonnet, began to arrange her hair. Madeline at this moment 
came in to fetch a little parcel of work for a poor woman, and 


366 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


going up to Ruth, put her arm affectionately round her, and said : 

‘ Are you tired, dear? can I help you?’ It was a very natural, 
simple question, but it was put so tenderly and unselfishly, that 
it struck Alice peculiarly. And Ruth’s manner in return — the 
confidence, the sense of hearty sympathy, made her feel, as she 
often did now, envious. She sighed when Madeline left the 
room, and said ; ‘ I wish I had a sister.’ 

‘ Every one may well wish that who has not one,’ answered 
Ruth ; but the words were regretted as soon as they were 
uttered, for Alice’s face grew sad. ‘ I mean a sister is a great 
blessing,’ continued Ruth ; ^ but other people have friends, and 
that does for them, I suppose.’ 

^ Some persons have friends,’ observed Alice ; * not all.’ 

^ You have a friend,’ continued Ruth — ‘ Florence Trevelyan.’ 

^ No, indeed; a friend! — she is not a friend — she is not 
what I mean. I like her, but she is not my friend.’ 

‘ I thought you were great allies,’ answered Ruth, with a 
slight accent of contempt, which did not reach Alice’s ears. 

* Allies are not friends,’ answered Alice. 

Ruth turned round quickly, and her face showed both 
pleasure and astonishment. 

‘ Then you have notions of something good in a friend, 
Alice,’ she said. 

‘ Good ? yes, very good indeed ! a great, great deal better 
than myself ; but no one who is good will ever be my friend.’ 

Alice’s manner when she said this excited Ruth’s compassion, 
and overcame her prudence. 

‘ I wish you had a friend at the Manor,’ she replied, ‘ in Lady 
Catharine.’ 

Alice twisted her chain according to her old school trick, and 
did not instantly answer. Presently she broke forth with : ‘ It 
is enough to make any one angry, to be treated so — just like a 
child ! — ordered about — lectured from morning till night.’ 

Ruth could scarcely refrain from a smile at this incoherent 
indignation. 

‘ But what is the matter ? — what is it all ? ’ she inquired. 

‘ The old story ; but I can’t bear it — I won’t — ^she does not 
care for me in the least.’ 

^ Alice, you are wrong there,’ replied Ruth, gravely ; ^ though 
you are vexed, you ought not to be unjust.’ 

‘ I have been lectured tliis morning like a baby,’ continued 
Alice. ‘ She says that I waste my time, and that I must, 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


367 


whether I like it or not, go to the school ; and I am to take a 
list of my books, and an inventory of all my things, and I don’t 
know what. It is ten times worse than school ; there one 
expected it, but this is home.’ 

‘ But, Alice,’ said Ruth, persuasively, ‘ just think for one 
minute, there is nothing very dreadful in having to go to the 
school, or to take a list of books. Papa and mamma make us 
do so.’ 

* Do they ? ’ answered Alice, more calmly ; ‘ but you are 
different from me — you don’t dislike it.’ 

‘ Madeline does,’ said Ruth ; ‘ she hears a little class every 
Thursday morning, who can only just tell their letters ; but she 
never complains, though she dislikes it extremely.’ 

‘ Madeline is good,’ said Alice ; ‘ I never shall be.’ 

A sigh followed this speech. Ruth was interested by it. 
Alice’s state of mind appeared strange to her. 

‘ Madeline is good,’ she replied ; ‘ but I don’t see why you 
are not to be equally so.’ 

‘ Because it is not in my nature — that is all.’ 

‘It is not in Madeline’s nature to do disagreeable things,’ 
said Ruth. 

‘ But then she has you with her,’ pursued Alice. ‘ I could be 
good too, if I had you.’ 

A tear stood in her eye as she spoke. Ruth’s heart was 
softened, and she gave Alice a kiss. The pent-up spirit which 
had before only partially shown itself, broke forth instantly. 
Alice burst into a renewed declaration of disappointment and 
discontent at her home ; longings to be like Madeline and 
Ruth ; regrets, fervont and sincere, for her own faults ; and, at 
length, a half-expressed, yet earnest assurance, that if she had 
but a friend like Ruth, all would be well. She required, she 
was aware, some one to guide and interest her. 

Ruth listened sympathisingly ; and — shall it be owned ? — with 
satisfaction. ‘ All would be well if Alice had a friend like her.’ 
Ruth had no fear then of being insincere, of not respecting 
Alice. Another idea presented itself — influence. Her manner 
altered, and became more gentle and free. She spoke soothingly, 
yet firmly ; she reminded Alice of her duties. It was pleasant 
to watch the gradual change which her words produced. Alice 
grew less vehement, more humble and affectionate. Ruth felt 
her own power, and her heart swelled within her. She spoke 
yet more strongly of submission and lowliness • she even ven- 


368 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


tured at last to remind Alice of her approaching confirnialion 
and the responsibility she must take upon herself. She said that 
it was necessary to make good resolutions, and recommended 
one even at that moment. It was, that Alice should try to please 
Lady Catharine by agreeing to attend the school ; and when 
Alice consented after some hesitation, Ruth was quite satisfied 
with her morning's work. 

‘ Mamma advises us to go out immediately,’ said Madeline, 

interrupting the conversation a second time,‘and she says ’ 

Alice’s tearful eyes, and Ruth’s heightened colour made her 
pause for an instant ; but the tact of a simple, unselfish mind 
suggested to her that it might be better not to ask questions, 
and she went on : ‘ Mamma says that we can take some biscuits 
with us, or we can have a sandwich before we set off ; but we 
had better not wait for regular luncheon, for fear of not being 
back in time for dinner.’ 

‘ And where are we to go ? ’ asked Ruth. 

‘ Oh ! any way we choose, and we may have the pony if we 
like it.’ 

‘ I should like Redford,’ said Alice, in rather a low voice to 
Ruth. Ruth appeared not to hear. ‘ Can’t we go 1 ’ continued 
Alice. 

‘Go ! where.? — to Redford.? Yes, I suppose we can if we 
choose it.’ 

‘ You were wishing to go there, Ruth, only yesterday,’ said 
jMadeline. 

Ruth still did not give a hearty assent ; and as Madeline went 
to the farther end of the room, she said to Alice, with a slight 
air of annoyance — 

‘ You wish to go to Redford, because you think you may meet 
Florence Trevelyan.’ 

‘ I don’t know that I shall meet her,’ answered Alice. 

‘ But you think it probable ; and she will not be of any use 
to you, Alice, if you want good friends.’ 

‘ There is no harm in wishing to see her,’ observed Alice ; 
‘ and I can’t say I think it kind in you to stand in the way. But, 
in fact, I am not at all certain of meeting her. I scarcely think it 
probable that I shall ; but I should like to go to Redford, be- 
cause every one talks about the church, and Lady Catharine 
will be glad for me to go.’ 

Ruth felt that she had tried to exert her newly-acquired in- 
fluence over Alice rather too strongly. She said no more, but 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


369 

entered into the plan cheerfully ; pleasing herself with the hope 
of having made another little step towards gaining Alice’s con- 
fidence and regard. 

The restoration of Redford Church was a common subject 
of conversation in the neighbourhood. Ruth and Madeline had 
seen the plans, and heard them explained, and learned some of 
the principal terms of architecture connected with them ; but 
Mr Clifford, in talking upon the subject, had impressed them 
with a much greater idea of the importance of the spirit with 
which such works should he undertaken, than of the value of a 
knowledge of the details. 

Madeline’s thoughts, as she approached Redford Church, 
were less of painted windows and oak carvings than of the 
sacredness of a place which was to be set apart for the worship 
of God, and which, it was therefore right, should be made as 
beautiful as possible. 

Ruth’s were a little different. She remembered it was a 
church which they were to see ; and that her papa had told 
her he would rather she should not talk about it lightly to 
every one ; but she was pleased to think that Alice was 
ignorant of the terms applied to the different parts, and felt a 
glow of satisfaction as she pointed out the tracery of the 
east window, and observed that it was taken from some old 
cathedral. 

To Alice, Redford Church was like any other sight ; very 
pretty, tolerably interesting, a good object for a long walk, and 
something to converse upon afterwards. The question that 
principally occupied her mind as they drew near to it was 
whether or not they should meet Florence Trevelyan. 

Ruth understood what was passing in Alice’s mind by the 
quick way in which she turned to look at any one who went 
by, and her careful notice of all the houses on the road. The 
idea that Alice was thinking of Florence, gave her a feeling of 
rivalship, and she exerted herself more to be agreeable ; and at 
last succeeded in winning Alice’s attention completely by rather 
an amusing account of a picnic party which had taken place a 
short time previously, and which she had heard described by a 
morning visitor. Ruth was not quite clear that the story was a 
desirable one to repeat, she had heard her mamma say it was 
rather ill-natured ; but it was to entertain Alice, and prevent 
her from caring for Florence Trevelyan, and make her fond of 
being with them ; and, without conceit, it was quite clear to 

2 A 


370 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


Ruth's mind that Alice was more likely to learn good from 
them than from Florence. 

Ruth purposely, though insensibly to Alice, gave the conver- 
sation a graver turn as they drew near the church ; and when 
they entered it, her manner became very serious. It was not 
natural, indeed, for one in whom the spirit of reverence had 
been so carefully cultivated, to feel anything but quiet awe in a 
building soon to be consecrated to God. Ruth looked at the 
font, which had been recently placed at the western entrance of 
the church, and it brought to her remembrance her baptismal 
vows, and the engagement which she must before long renew 
in the face of the assembled congregation. Her eye passed 
along the open seats, and it required but little imagination to 
picture them filled with rich and poor, met together for one com- 
mon purpose, acknowledging the sins of the same sinful nature, 
and asking the pardon of the same God, through the Saviour 
who had died alike for all. Whilst holier, more solemn still — 
beyond, in the depth of the chancel, stood the altar, reminding 
her that, if her life were spared, she might, before many months 
w'ere over, be permitted to kneel and receive the completion of 
her Christian privileges, the foretaste of the communion of 
heaven. 

No ! a church, even when unconsecrated, is not a place for 
a careless discussion of the beauties of architecture, and the 
display of our knowledge of corbels, and finials, and carvings, 
and the difference between modern and ancient glass. Unless 
w^e speak of these things with a full remembrance that they 
are connected with a sacred building, we had much better be 
silent. 

Alice was easily influenced by example. She soon caught the 
tone of her companion’s observations, and walked up the aisles 
quietly, 'making her remarks without any appearance of levity. 
Ruth noticed this, and flattered herself that it was partly the 
result of being with her. Alice was not naturally so subdued 
and reverent. 

They were standing before the altar, and Ruth was remark- 
ing some peculiarities in the ornaments about it, when another 
party entered the church. Ruth was too much occupied with 
what she was saying to observe them, and both Alice and 
Madeline were listening to her attentively. The strangers were 
an elderly lady, a little girl of about eleven, and a young lady, 
rather pretty, very well dressed and slightly self-conscious in 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


371 


manner. They advanced into the chancel. Ruth, not aware 
of their presence, continued her observations in a tone loud 
enough to be audible. 

The young lady watched them for a few instants, then smiled 
and whispered something to her friend, and, stepping forward, 
gently touched Alice’s shoulder. 

‘ Florence ! ’ exclaimed Alice, recovering from her first feel- 
ing of frightened displeasure. 

Florence laughed heartily, and held out her hand to Ruth 
and Madeline. U 

She was in ecstasies at the meeting ; it was delightful, 
charming ; nothing in the world could be more fortunate ; and 
her aunt would be so rejoiced to see them ; where had they 
come from ? how long had they been there ? when were they 
obliged to go back ? 

Madeline stood in silent wonder ; abashed at the height and 
fashionable appearance of her former schoolfellow. 

Ruth was quite self-possessed. 

‘A charming church this is !’ began Florence, putting up her 
eye-glass. 

Ruth assented shortly. 

‘ My aunt has been promising to bring me here ever since I 
arrived,’ continued Florence; ‘you must be introduced to my 
aunt — my aunt Harriet — Harriet, my sister, was named after her.’ 

Mrs De Lacy drew near, and Alice and her companions were 
introduced. She was a middle-aged, indolent-mannered, soft- 
voiced person, with a slight lisp. Ruth was not at all struck 
by her. Rather an awkward pause followed the introduction, 
and Mrs De Lacy, for want of something to say, observed that 
Ruth must have a considerable knowledge of architecture from 
the remarks she had been making. 

‘Oh, Ruth knows everything,’ exclaimed Florence; ‘she always 
did at school.’ 

‘ Not quite everything, Florence,’ replied Ruth. ‘ Papa has 
taught me the terms of architecture ; that is all I know.’ 

‘ And a great deal more than I do, or my aunt either,’ ex- 
claimed Florence. ‘ Aunt Harriet, we must make Ruth go 
round the church with us, and do the honours.’ 

Ruth declined the proposal, again insisting upon her own 
ignorance. 

‘ Well, then, Madeline, you had always a little wisdom in 
your head, tell us all about the church.’ 


372 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Madeline seemed quite amused at the idea of possessing any 1 
wisdom ; but without hesitation told what she knew of the style, j 
and the points which were particularly to be admired. Florence 
listened carelessly, and presently, putting her ann within that 
of Alice, drew her to the lower end of the church. Mrs De 
Lacy remained talking to Ruth and Madeline, and invited them 
both to return with her to her house, which was about half a 
mile distant. Ruth hesitated, and Mrs De Lacy pressed her 
with some earnestness. She was very glad, she said, to make 
their acquaintance. She had often heard her niece speak of 
them, and it would be a great advantage to Florence to have 
such agreeable, sensible comp^ions whilst she was in the 
neighbourhood. Ruth’s thanks were quietly given, but her 
hesitation was evidently less. 

^ Had we not better go home, Ruth?’ said Madeline. ^ We 
shall be late for dinner.’ 

‘ Oh ! but surely just for this once. Your mamma is not 
very exacting, I am sure,’ continued Mrs De Lacy. 

Madeline blushed deeply, and, approaching her sister more 
nearly, whispered hurriedly, ‘ Mamma does not know Mrs De 
Lacy.’ 

‘ Come, I see you are inclined to yield,’ persisted Mrs De 
Lacy. ‘ I shall hope to make your mamma’s personal acquaint- 
ance before long, and then I shall bq able to explain the case 
to her. Really, I cannot resist the opportunity of cultivating 
such a very desirable acquaintance.’ 

‘ We might walk part of the way together,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; we might,’ observed Madeline, great doubt being ex- 
pressed in the word ‘ might.’ 

‘ Well, come part of the way, and I shall see whether I can- 
not persuade you to extend your walk the whole w^ay,’ said Mrs 
De Lacy, and she went forward to tell Florence that she had 
gained her point. 

Alice was giving her whole attention to something which 
Florence was telling her, and she was very glad not to be im- 
mediately interrupted. She thanked Ruth cordially for con- 
senting, and said it was very kind in her, and then she and 
Florence left the church together. They soon, however, re- 
joined Ruth ; and Florence began thanking her again for going 
with them, declaring that it would have been a great disappoint- 
ment if she had not done so ; for they might not have another 
opportunity of seeing each other for some time. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


373 


‘ I wish, extremely, to hear all about the Parsonage,’ she 
continued, ‘ what you do — how you spend your time. I heard 
such an account of you from a lady who dined at my aunt’s the 
day before yesterday ; and you know, Ruth, you were always a 
pattern to every one.’ 

Ruth’s colour changed quickly, and she was silent. Florence 
went on talking to Alice. Mrs De Lacy, Madeline, and the 
two children were behind. What passed between Florence and 
Alice for the next few minutes Ruth did not very well know. 
That short allusion to bygone days had carried her mind back 
to school ; its great temptations and her own weakness. Was 
she altered.? Had the lapse of time, with the blessing of good 
advice and good example, strengthened her moral principles? 
Having reached an age when she could no longer be deemed a 
child, and about to be admitted to confirmation and the vast 
privilege succeeding it, was she really bent upon giving up all 
which might withdraw her heart from. God? These are ques- 
tions which we may ask at length ; by Ruth they were only 
felt as a misgiving, a pang of conscience, a doubt whether the 
Ruth Clifford of the quiet country parsonage was not in too 
many respects the same Ruth Clifford of Mrs Carter’s school, who 
had so sadly wandered from the straightforward path of duty. 

‘ Now, Ruth, we must turn this way,’ said Madeline, trying 
to gain her sister’s attention, as they came to a place where 
four lanes met. ‘ It will lead us across the common into the 
Laneton road.’ 

Ruth was a short distance before, now again conversing upon 
a subject which apparently interested all parties — the home life 
at the Parsonage. She did not hear her sister, and went on. 

‘ Must they not lead happy lives?’ said Alice ; as Ruth paused 
in her description. ‘ Much happier than mine.’ 

‘Or mine!’ remarked Florence, sighing. ‘I only wish I 
could do just the same.’ 

‘ Oh I no, Florence ; you like gaieties, and going out to din- 
ner-parties and balls,’ said Ruth. ‘ Alice has told me you are 
to begin soon ; you would not bear our sober ways.’ 

‘ Florence would, though,’ said Alice. 

‘ Certainly I should. It was only the other day we settled 
how we should like to live together in a village ; did we not, 
Alice ? We would have a few friends to see us, now and then, 
and go out for a walk when we chose, and have a nice little 
pony-chaise.’ « 


374 LANETON PARSONAGE. 

‘ And go to the schools, and see the poor people,’ added 
Alice. 

‘ Oh, yes, of course, do everything of that kind ; live a com- 
plete country life, in short.’ 

Just then Madeline gained Ruth’s attention by saying rather 
more loudly, ‘ Ruth, we have passed the turning ; I don’t think 
we must go any farther.’ 

‘ And there is Sheldon Lodge,’ said Mrs De Lacy, pointing to 
a white house just seen amongst the trees. 

‘ It will not make five minutes’ difference to go on,’ observed 
Alice. 

‘ And I do so vvant to talk a little more,’ said Florence. 

Ruth answered that she was afraid they must wait for an- 
other opportunity ; but she did not wish any one ‘ Good-bye.’ 
She stood looking at the Lodge. 

‘ Mamma would rather not, I am sure,’ said Madeline, going 
up to her. 

Mrs De Lacy did not hear what she said, but laughingly ex- 
claimed, ‘ I suspect you are a little enemy. Suppose we make 
a compromise ; you shall walk with us to the gate.’ 

‘ There can be no harm in that, Madeline,’ said Ruth ; and 
Madeline could not exactly say there was, only in her heart 
she wished it had been settled otherwise. 

The gate was soon reached ; there they were really to sepa- 
rate ; but by this time a new cause had arisen for delay. Alice 
wanted Ruth to see a prize which Florence had gained the last 
half-year she was at school ; actually a good-conduct prize. It 
was a very handsome book, ‘ One of the handsomest,’ she said, 
‘ which had ever been given by Mrs Carter ; ’ and when Alice 
made this remark, she watched Ruth, as she had done once or 
twice before, to see the effect of her words. Ruth’s manner to 
Florence had been gradually changing during the whole of this 
interview. At first she was rather cold ; then cheerful, but in- 
different ; then interested ; and now, there was clearly a certain 
mixture of respect. She did not like to give Florence any 
trouble, she said, and as they were in a hurry", perhaps it would 
be better to wait till another day. Florence would not be con- 
tented with this proposal. She wished to have Ruth’s opinion 
about the book at once, because she was such a good judge. 

‘ We might just go in for one minute,’ said Alice. 

Ruth really could see no objection, as they had come so far ; 
and referring to Madeline, asited her whether she would not 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


375 

come also. Madeline looked a little surprised and annoyed, 
and reminded her that it was getting late. 

‘ We shall not be one minute — not half a minute,’ exclaimed 
Florence, hastening towards the house, and Ruth and Alice 
followed her. 

Madeline remained behind, making a laughing excuse to 
Mrs De Lacy that she wished to be a check upon the others : 
they would be ashamed to keep her waiting, and if they all 
went together, they might be tempted to stay for another hour. 

Ruth was fully resolved only to be absent the ‘ one minute.’ 
She walked very fast, saying several times that they had not an 
instant to spare ; and declining Mrs De Lacy’s invitation to go 
into the drawing-room, went up-stairs directly to Florence’s 
apartment. Alice began to remark upon its prettiness, the 
pattern of the chintz furniture, the luxury of having a sofa, the 
convenience of the large wardrobe, and other such advantages; 
but Ruth was not to be diverted from her one object. She 
made Florence bring her the book immediately. It was Bishop 
Taylor’s ‘ Holy Living and Dying.’ Florence said she had 
read some of it, and liked it. Ruth knew it well, but she would 
not talk about it then ; and, after admiring it extremely, she 
said they must manage to meet again soon ; and, summoning 
Alice, led the way down-stairs. Alice lingered a little behind, 
and Ruth and Florence stood at the head of the stairs waiting 
for her. The staircase was a winding one, and from it they 
could look down into a stone hall, from which the doors of the 
different rooms opened. They heard Mrs De Lacy speaking 
to some one below. Florence . listened, and drew back in- 
stantly. 

‘How provoking!’ she exclaimed. ‘Wait one minute; 
don’t go down just now.’ Ruth’s foot was on the first stair. 

‘ Indeed we must go. No one will take any notice of us,’ 
she replied, impatiently. 

Florence forcibly detained her, and when Alice joined them, 
she put up her finger to enforce silence. 

‘ We did not expect you till this evening,’ they heard Mrs 
De Lacy say. 

Florence loosened her hold of Ruth. 

‘ Now, we are safe. I hate encountering visitors.’ 

Ruth ran down the stairs. The drawing-room door was left 
open. They could see Mrs De Lacy placing a chair for a young 
lady. Ruth did not remark her particularly. Florence, as her 


376 


LAAETON PARSONAGE. 


back was towards them, stepped before her, and took the handle 
of the door to shut it ; but before she had succeeded, Ruth 
caught the voice and foreign accent of the stranger. She could 
not mistake it, though so long a time had elapsed since she had 
heard it. 

‘Justine le Vergnier ! ’ she exclaimed. 

Florence coloured crimson. She motioned to Ruth and Alice 
to enter a small study next the drawing-room, and, closing the 
door, said — 

‘ I did not wish you to know — at least, not you, Ruth. I 
told Alice she was expected. But you must please promise me 
not to say you have seen her, even to Madeline ; and if you 
hear anything about her, not to make any allusion to old times, 
Mrs Carter, and all that nonsense. It would be immensely 
unkind, and do great mischief.’ 

‘ I never feel myself bound to keep secrets unless I know a 
reason for it,’ said Ruth, with some pride of manner. ‘ Why is 
J Listine here ? ’ 

‘ It is a long story ^ there is not time to tell it now,’ said 
Florence. 

‘ But I do not like to have secrets from mamma,’ observed 
Ruth ; ‘ and Alice ought not to have any from Lady Ca- 
tharine.’ 

‘ Trust Alice for that,’ said Florence, laughing. ‘Juno is not 
like Mrs Clifford. But, my dear Ruth, I thought I could trust 
you entirely ; and I may want to consult you. You may really 
be of use to me, if you will only be wise just now ; but I 
assure you,- you do not know the mischief you may do if you 
are not.’ 

Florence was not clever ; it was a sort of instinct which made 
her seize on Ruth’s weak point. To he of use, to give advice, 
to have influence in fact, was a tempting bait to a person of 
Ruth’s character. 

‘ All I wish,’ continued Florence, ‘ is, as I said before, that 
you should not mention having seen Justine here ; and, if any- 
thing is said about her, that you should not refer in any way to 
the old story against her.’ 

Ruth could see no exact harm in the promise, yet she did not 
like promises. Alice declared her full belief that they were 
bound in honour not to say one word more than Florence de- 
sired. It would be cruel to rake up old offences. Ruth felt 
that good-nature was expected of her, whether true or false was 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


377 


not the question. She hesitated. Florence again professed an 
intention of some day asking her opinion ; and Alice said she 
was certain that Ruth would judge properly. It did seem un- 
kind of Ruth to refuse, when she could not tell the reasons which 
might induce Florence to make the request ; and if they were 
to differ now, it might produce a coldness which might never be 
overcome. This would be a pity, as Florence appeared im- 
proved and open to good impressions. So after some little 
consideration, Ruth agreed to say nothing for the present — 
‘ only for the present, however,^ she repeated, as they left the 
house. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

* T T 7HERE are you going, my dear Alice said Lady 

V V Catharine, a few mornings after the visit to Redford 
Church, as she met Alice dressed for walking, soon after break- 
fast. 

‘ To the school, ma’am ; it is my day.’ 

‘ To the school, my dear, alone 1 Why did you not tell 
me ?’ 

‘ I thought you wished me to go, ma’am,’ answered Alice. 

‘ Certainly, my dear, I wished it. But this — really — I don’t 
understand — you take me quite by surprise. Who told you to 
go this morning .?’ 

‘ Mr Clifford told me this would be the best day, when I 
went to the Parsonage yesterday,’ answered Alice. 

‘ But to go without my knowledge ! Very extraordinary ! 
Come back, my dear, into the breakfast-room. Let me hear 
more about it — very extraordinary, indeed !’ 

Lady Catharine entered the breakfast -room with a stately 
step, and seated herself in a high-backed chair, against which, 
however, she would on no account have leaned. 

‘ Now, my dear, let me hear something more ; who do you 
say told you to go to the school .?’ 

‘ You did, ma’am, and Mr Clifford.’ 

‘ We talked to you about it; but you were not inclined to 
undertake the duty, for a duty it clearly is. I should be glad, 
my dear, for the future, to understand you better.’ 


378 


LANE TO IV PARSONAGE, 


‘ I thought you would be pleased when I came back/ said 
Alice, with more humility than she had hitherto shown. 

‘ Perhaps I might have been. I will not say that I should 
not ; but I ought to have been told before. I like to be pre- 
pared. I cannot understand what your arrangements for the 
day are to be.' 

Alice had made no arrangements. Ruth had been talking 
to her again about the school. Mr Clifford had named the day 
and the hour when it would be best for her to attend. She 
had half made up her mind the night before that she would go, 
and determined upon it decidedly that morning, as much 
because she was not in a humour for her ordinary occupations 
as from a principle of duty. 

‘Well ! ' continued Lady Catharine, recovering her usual 
dignity, and pitying Alice’s discomposure — ‘ I daresay you did 
not intend any harm, my dear ; but you must remember I do 
not like surprises. If I had been prepared for this step, I 
should have formed different plans myself.’ 

‘ The step ’ seemed to Alice a very simple one, and instead 
of making apologies or excuses she asked if there was any 
reason now why she should not go. 

‘ None at all, my dear — none that I know of ; it is quite 
right, your duty, to attend at the school. I hope you will pay 
particular attention to Mr Clifford’s instructions as to what 
you are to do. Still I could have desired — however, it cannot 
be helped, it is out of the question you should be with me, when 
you have arranged to take a morning at the school.’ 

‘Are you going out, ma’am?’ asked Alice, rather astonished. 

‘ Only for some visits, my dear, at a distance ; and I shall 
take Mrs De Lacy of Sheldon on my way back. I thought, as 
you informed me the other day that you had met your school- 
fellow, Miss Trevelyan, at Redford, you might have liked to 
accompany me; but it does not signify; and as Miss Trevelyan 
is not a particular friend of yours, you will not so much care.’ 
Alice was silent from vexation. ‘ I will not keep you, my dear,’ 
continued Lady Catharine ; ‘ no doubt, as Mr Clifford named 
the hour, he will be punctual and ready to tell you what you 
have to do. I shall be glad to hear when I return. You have 
no message, I conclude, for Miss Trevelyan?’ 

Alice had a message, which she wished very much to send. 
It was to repeat to Florence a caution she had hastily given 
her at their first meeting — not to say much about their being 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


379 


intimate ; but as this could not be sent through Lady Catharine, 
she could only reply in the negative, and Lady Catharine, beg- 
ging her to make a proper apology to Mr Clifford if she should 
be late at the school, dismissed her. 

Left to herself. Lady Catharine’s manner changed. The 
severe features relaxed ; the coldness of the gray eye was 
softened into melancholy, and the stern lips expressed tender- 
ness and anxiety. 

When would Alice cease to be reserved with her best friend.? 
When would she understand her affection ? When would she 
give any opening for sympathy.? These were the questions 
which Lady Catharine asked herself. The reply came in a 
chill sense of disappointment. And Alice, notwithstanding her 
instability of character, would have bitterly reproached herself 
if she had known the pain which her inattention to Lady 
Catharine’s habits, and her wilful impatience of anything ap- 
proaching to reproof, so frequently caused. 

Mr Clifford and Ruth were at the school together ; and Mr 
Clifford, thinking that Alice would be less afraid with Ruth 
than with him, left them with a class whilst he went to examine 
the boys. 

Teaching, unless we have a natural taste for it, is a very 
wearisome undertaking. Alice soon thought it so ; and long- 
ing to have the lessons finished, spoke impatiently and rather 
unjustly to a child who was not perfect in her lessons. In- 
justice produced irritation of temper ; irritation became want of 
respect ; want of respect made Alice very angry. If Ruth had 
not been present she would have thrown down the book and 
left the class to itself. As it was, she cast an imploring glance 
at Ruth, entreating her to interpose. Ruth said but little, and 
in a much quieter tone than Alice, but she enforced instant 
attention ; and Alice listened with surprise to the steady, 
orderly course of instruction which followed. Ruth seemed as 
much at home in her duties as if she had been accustomed to 
them from infancy. When the lessons were ended, Ruth did 
not make any observation upon Alice’s failure ; but proposed 
that they should inquire whether her father was ready to go. 
Alice gave a silent, moody assent. 

‘ Well, Alice,’ said Mr Clifford, as they took the road to the 
Parsonage, where Alice was to have her luncheon ; ‘ how did 
you manage .? Were the children perfect .? ’ 

‘Not quite, papa,’ interposed Ruth; ‘Jane Stevens was 
naughty, and Kate Morrison was very idle.’ 


38 o 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


^ They were all naughty, I think, ^ said Alice. 

‘ All ! rather a sweeping condemnation,’ said Mr Clifford- 
‘ But was it a great trouble to you, Alice ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ was upon Alice’s lips, but she was afraid to speak it. 

‘ You will grow more accustomed to it by and by,’ observed 
Ruth. ‘ You will know how to manage better.’ 

‘ No, never; you are mistaken there, Ruth. I shall never 
manage, I shall never do anything, 

‘ And why not, my dear,’ said Mr Clifford ; ^ why are you to 
be so much more stupid than the rest of the world.?’ 

‘ Because — I don’t know — because — I shall be ; because I 
am in everything — I always was. No one is ever pleased with 
me,’ she added, in an under-voice. 

Mr Clifford drew Alice’s arm within his, and, pointing to a 
woman who was crossing the road lower down, he said, ‘ Ruth, 
just go forward and tell Mrs Barnes to call at the Parsonage 
this evening ; I want to see her.’ 

Ruth ran on, and Mr Clifford, slackening his pace, said, 
‘ Alice, my love, I am one of your oldest friends, and old friends 
are privileged. Will you let me ask you a question?’ 

Alice’s hand trembled a little, but she did not speak. 

‘ You are not happy, my dear,’ continued Mr Clifford ; ‘Ruth 
tells me that she thinks you are not, and I can see it myself. 
Can I help you ? ’ 

‘ No, indeed. I am not unhappy ; Ruth does not know 
about me,’ answered Alice ; ‘ I am vexed at not doing better at 
the school, but I cannot help it.’ 

‘ I am afraid that is not quite sincere,’ rejoined Mr Clifford ; 

‘ however, as you had rather not talk to me, you shall not; only 
remember, that when I can ever be of use to you, I shall be 
quite ready to be so ; for your own sake, and ’ — Mr Clifford 
spoke with some hesitation — ‘ for your mother’s sake.’ 

‘ My mother !’ repeated Alice, ‘ every one loved her.’ 

‘ And every one will love her child, Alice, if only she will 
follow in the same footsteps.’ 

‘ Lady Catharine once told me I should never be like her,’ said 
Alice, with some bitterness. 

‘ Lady Catharine was speaking of your natural disposition,’ re- 
plied Mr Clifford ; ‘ you are hasty, eager, and easily led ; your 
mother was gentle and firm. By nature you certainly are not 
like her ; but it does not follow that you may not become so.’ 

‘ But no persons are exactly alike,’ said Alice, rather per- 
versely. 




LANETON PARSONAGE. 38 1 

Mr Clifford did not seem to notice her manner, he only an- 
swered rather more gravely than before. 

‘ The same Pattern is given to us all, Alice — a perfect one. 
The better we are, the more nearly we shall approach to it.’ 

‘ Mamma had always some one to love her,’ continued Alice. 

‘ Perhaps, my dear child, you do not understand the love 
which is given you,’ answered Mr Clifford. ‘ Because it is 
hidden by a certain stiffness, and sometimes coldness of manner, 
you may think that it does not exist.’ 

‘ It is difficult to be always believing one is loved,’ said Alice. 
‘ One longs to see it and know it.’ 

‘ Yes, I own that,’ replied Mr Clifford. ‘ It is a great trial 
of what may be called human faith. Still, actions are the best 
proofs of love.’ 

‘ Yes, I know, I really do know it,’ exclaimed Alice, softened 
by finding that her troubles were acknowledged to be real. 
‘ Very often I say to myself that I am ungrateful ; still, things 
go on just the same.’ 

^ But, Alice — you must not think that I am wishing to find 
fault with you because I ask the question — have you ever 
seriously set yourself to alter the state of things ? You call 
Lady Catharine cold ; have you ever yourself given her occasion 
to be otherwise ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know ; I have tried to love her,’ said Alice. 

‘ But trying to love is useless. We must act if we wish to 
feel. Lady Catharine has devoted herself in action to you, 
that you acknowledge ; perhaps you have not done the same 
for her.’ 

Alice could not find what to answer. 

‘ It is a very important question for you, my dear,’ continued 
Mr Clifford, more authoritatively ; ‘ a great deal of your happi- 
ness must depend upon the answer you can give to it. Will 
you think of it .? ’ 

They had reached the Parsonage gate as Mr Clifford said 
this. Ruth was waiting for them there. Alice withdrew her- 
self from him, and walked into the house alone. 

Ruth looked^at her father for an explanation. He appeared 
vexed ; and she did not like to ask him the caused 

He referred to it, however, by saying, ‘ Alice is very re- 
served.’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Ruth ; ‘ that is, papa, she is reserved some- 
times j but she is very odd. I think what she wants is some 


382 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


one to love her. Nothing, it seems, will make her happy except 
that.’ 

‘ Nothing will make any of us happy but that,’ replied Mr 
Clifford, with a peculiar, grave smile on his lips, which Ruth 
did not thoroughly understand. 

Mr Clifford turned into a path leading to a distant part of 
the garden, and Ruth followed him. 

‘ Papa,’ she said, presently, ‘ if you have not influence over 
Alice, who can have ? ’ 

‘ It is not influence which we must trust to, Ruth,’ replied 
Mr Clifford ; ‘ we must have the mainspring in ourselves if we 
mean to be worth anything. It is religion which Alice wants.’ 

‘ And affection, too, papa,’ said Ruth. 

Mr Clifford walked on in silence. 

Ruth did not feel that she might venture to interrupt him : 
he seemed thinking deeply. 

At last he said, ‘ We must not separate religion and affec- 
tion, my dearest child.’ 

‘ It does not seem that they have much to do with each 
other,’ observed Ruth, in a tone of surprise. 

‘ But,’ replied Mr Clifford, ‘ we are told in the Bible that 
religion is to make us happy, and we feel in ourselves that it is 
happiness to love and be loved in return ; there must, there- 
fore, be love in religion : otherwise it could not satisfy us.’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Ruth, doubtfully. 

‘ Perhaps I am not speaking clearly,’ continued Mr Clifford ; 

‘ I will refer to Alice. The craving of her mind is for affec- 
tion, at least, so she thinks ; but if to-morrow she were to 
receive the most perfect human affection we can imagine, and 
to give her own to the same extent, she could not be happy for 
a continuance ; because it is religion alone which can render 
her so.’ 

‘ But, surely, papa,’ exclaimed Ruth, ^ she might still be 
religious ? We may love people without doing wrong.’ 

‘ What do you mean by being religious, Ruth ?’ 

‘ Keeping God’s commandments ; trying to please Him ; 
having faith in Him ;’ answered Ruth. 

‘ That is what you mean. Now, what does the Bible mean.?’ 

‘ I don’t know ; I can’t understand ; ’ answered Ruth, with 
an air of great astonishment. ‘ It says the same, I believe.’ 

‘ Do you remember,’ inquired Mr Clifford, ‘ our Saviour’s 
answer to the question of the lawyer : “ Which is the great 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


38j 


commandment in the law ? ” Thou shalt love the Lord thy 
God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy 
mind.” * 

‘ Yes,’ replied Ruth, thoughtfully, ‘ I know that religion is 
the love of God, but I did not think of saying it.’ 

‘ Love,’ repeated Mr Clifford : ‘ not obedience merely ; still 
less fear ; but love. A real, warm, devoted, intense feeling of 
the heart. Love to our blessed Lord as to a human friend ; 
only with the fullest, most unwavering confidence in His affec- 
tion. Such a feeling as will make us turn to Him in all our 
troubles, as sure of His sympathy ; which wiU make us delight 
in the smallest occasions of showing our affection ; which will 
make us find real happiness in prayer, and reading the Bible, 
and receiving the Holy Communion. This is religion, Ruth ; 
the religion which is to make us blest in life, and full of peace 
in death.’ 

‘ Papa,’ said Ruth, in a tone of deep seriousness, ‘ I am 
afraid I shall never feel this ; but I hoped I was trying to be 
religious.’ 

‘ I have been speaking of the end of religion, my dearest 
Ruth, not the beginning. The effort at obedience must come 
first ; the joy of love will be our reward afterwards. When it 
is ours, we shall have attained the object of our lives ; we shall 
be happy.’ 

‘ But,’ said Ruth, ‘ we were intended to love our fellow- 
creatures also ; it comes to us quite naturally.’ 

‘ Yes, to love them deeply and devotedly, but not to rest our 
highest affection upon them ; not to feel that without them life 
would have neither interest nor hope.’ 

‘ I should be very miserable without you and mamma,’ said 
Ruth. 

‘ Yet the time will come when we must part, my dear child. 
If you give us your whole heart, you are resting your happiness 
on a broken reed.’ 

‘ But it seems so difficult, so impossible, not to love one’s 
friends,’ exclaimed Ruth. ‘ I always feel with Alice when she 
talks to me about it.’ 

‘ I do not for an instant wish you not to love them most 
dearly,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ only, not to put them first. I 
will tell you a mistake which many persons — young persons 
especially, are apt to make. It is the secret of a vast portion 
cf their unhappiness and disappointment. They say they wish 


3S4 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


to be religious, and they set about performing their duties 
strictly ; they pray regularly, and go to church, and read the 
Bible, and try to correct their evil tempers — and, in a measure, 
they succeed and improve ; but still religion does not make 
them happy/ 

Mr Clifford paused, and Ruth thought, though she did not 
express it, that this was her own case. 

‘ Such persons,’ continued Mr Clifford, ‘ are servants, very 
good servants ; but they are not children ; I mean, of course, 
in feeling. Now why do you think this is ?’ 

‘ Because they are not so good as they ought to be, I sup- 
pose,’ answered Ruth. 

‘ But they are in earnest, trying very much : the secret is, 
that they are giving their obedience to God, but their hearts to 
their fellow-creatures. They do not think of God as their 
Friend. 1 use the word in its plain, literal sense. They do 
not feel that He loves them. They pray for great things, but 
they do not mention before Him the little circumstances which 
interest them, or make them anxious. They own that their 
Saviour has redeemed them from eternal punishment, but they 
do not see that He saves them from daily annoyance. They 
take their trifling comforts and pleasures as matters of course ; 
whereas, if they thought rightly, every petty gratification would 
be a source of delight, as the mark of an especial love.’ 

‘ But it seems almost irreverent to think of religion in such, 
little instances,’ said Ruth. 

‘ How do you feel towards me, Ruth, when you thank me for 
a trifling kindness ?’ 

‘ That is so different,’ answered Ruth. 

‘ Ah ! my love, there is the mistake. We think that the 
love of God is something totally unlike the love of our fellow- 
creatures, when, in fact, it is the very same feeling, only purified 
and exalted. As I said before, it is not obedience, or fear, or 
even reverence ; though, of course, all these must exist with it. 
It is actually love. As we could love a human being, and give 
up our hearts to him in the confidence of meeting a full return, 
so we may and must love God, if we ever intend that religion 
should be our happiness.’ 

‘ God is so far above us,’ said Ruth, in a low voice. 

^ And, therefore, Ruth, once He became man that we might 
learn to love Him.’ 

Ruth sighed despondingly. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


385 


‘ I would not for the world discourage you, my dearest child,’ 
continued Mr Clifford. ‘ Obedience, and reverence, and fear — 
which I can quite understand are all you yet associate with reli- 
gion — are most excellent in themselves ; quite necessary as a 
beginning. But what I wish you, and Madeline, and Alice to 
feel, is that there is something far beyond — something, which if 
you really strive after, you must one day attain. When you 
renew your vows at your confirmation, I would wish you to do 
, it in the spirit of children.’ 

‘ If we were good we might do so,’ answered Ruth. 

‘ You are fast emerging from childhood, Ruth,’ continued Mr 
Clifford. ‘ You can look back upon your early life, and judge of 
and learn from it. When you were a little child, did your mother 
and I love you because you were good ? ’ 

Ruth was about to answer ‘ Yes ; ’ but she stopped herself. 
‘ You loved me when I was good,’ she replied ; ‘ you often tola 
me so.’ 

‘ Certainly I did : but often you were naughty. Did we cease 
to love you then ? ’ 

‘ You were displeased with me,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ But did we cast you off.^ Was not ours a patient, enduring 
love, which bore with your faults, and watched with delight the 
slightest improvement ? ’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Ruth, heartily. ‘ I should never have improved 
at all but for that.’ 

‘ And now,’ continued Mr Clifford, ‘ you are reaching an age 
when all that you have felt and acted upon toWards your earthly 
parents is to be felt and acted upon towards God. God has 
been pleased so to order our earthly existence that all things 
belonging to it should be the types of our spiritual existence. 
As we read of death and the resurrection, in the course of the 
sun, in the seed sown in the ground, in the transformation of 
insects ; so we may read the course of our mortal life in the 
history of our early years. The love which you have felt for 
me is the love which one day, if you ever wish for happiness, 
you must feel towards God.’ 

* I cannot fancy it the same,’ said Ruth. 

‘ In one respect it will not be the same,’ replied her lather. 

‘ As it is to be directed to an infinitely Higher Object, so it 
must be, in its perfection, infinitely more satisfying.’ 

* Yes, in its perfection,’ said Ruth, doubtfully. 

* And even in its imperfection — in its germ — it must bring 

• 2 B 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


386 

more real happiness than any inferior affection There can be 
no distrust in it. It must unite all that is deepest and purest 
of the most , engrossing earthly love ; the fond reverence of a 
child for a parent — the entire confidence of brother with brother 
— the fulness of sympathy of the nearer ties which we form for 
ourselves — all hallowed, strengthened, ennobled by the sense 
that the Being to whom we have devoted ourselves is Almighty 
and Unchangeable.’ 

‘ I should like to think that I could ever feel it,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Wish for it — and, if you cannot do that, pray that you may 
be taught to wish for it — my dear child, and you will have taken 
a first step towards realising it. Too many persons never wish 
for it ; they do not know — they scarcely ever think what the 
love of God means. They have a low notion of religion ; they 
suppose it is only intended to make them what they call good — 
moral, well-conducted.’ 

‘ But it must do so,’ said Ruth. 

‘ Yes, indeed, it must, or it has no reality ; but it is also in- 
tended to do much more — to make us happy. Even in the 
common view of religion, however, there is a mistake. We 
can never serve God rightly in our daily duties unless we wor- 
ship Him, and are grateful to Him, and trust, and pray to, and 
honour Him — in one word, give Him our hearts and love Him. 
We see everyday the difference between the service of love and 
that of fear or necessity. One is happiness, the other wearying 
labour.’ 

Ruth repeated ’the word ‘happiness’ to herself, as if unable 
to realise what her father said. 

‘ This is not a truth to be understood by reasoning,’ continued 
Mr Clifford ; ‘ yet it is a certain fact that no one ever loved God, 
and was disappointed. Ask any person — ^however poor, or 
suffering, or lonely — whether he would exchange the feeling for 
any other, however pure and strong, and he will say “ No.” 
And as you go forward in life and find yourself more exposed 
to its trials, Ruth, you will understand what I mean when I say 
that it gives , us rest. You are young now; rest scarcely seems 
a blessing ; by and by it will 'be your one great longing, and 
nothing but the intense devotion of the affections to God will 
give it.’ 

‘ It seems to me as if I could be satisfied if any one like 
myself loved me b^^r^ than anything else in the world,’ said 
Ruth. 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


387 

Mr Clifford smiled sadly. ^ Ah, Ruth ! so you may be satis- 
fied for a time — many have been — but the satisfaction cannot 
continue. If there is nothing higher — no one Perfect and Im- 
mortal Being who has the first place — there must be disappoint- 
ment in the end.^ 

Ruth looked incredulous. 

* I cannot expect you to believe all this at once,’ said Mr 
Clifford. ‘ I would not have said it if I had not felt that you 
rere approaching an age when you might need it. Only I will 
ask you to think of this — even in human affection the knowledge 
lliat we are beloved tends to increase, and very often to excite 
our feelings in return. There are facts in the Bible which place 
the love of God to us beyond the possibility of doubt; and there 
are words in the Bible so full of gentle, tender, wonderful affec- 
tion, that the most anxious heart could require no more. They 
are to be found in the prayer of our blessed Lord for His dis- 
ciples and for those who afterwards should believe in Him. 
There seems an especial care that no doubt should exist upon 
this point. The petition is, that “ aU may be one” — one with 
God, loved with that same unutterable love which was the per- 
fection of our Lord’s blessedness in heaven. Ruth, my child, 
will you read those words thoughtfully, with reverence, kneel- 
ing before God, and praying Him to teach you to understand 
them 

What Ruth might answer Mr Clifford did not wait to hear. 
He imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, and left her alone to 
think. 

And was Ruth in a state of mind to think ? Could she com- 
prehend her father’s words ? Comprehend them she did as far 
as that implies understanding their literal meaning ; and even 
in a higher sense she could in a measure enter into them ; for 
Ruth, like many of her age whom God has gifted with warm 
affections and thoughtful minds, had often felt the longing for 
some devoted affection to satisfy her dream of happiness. Made- 
line could live from day to day without thinking of the future — 
contented in the peaceful enjoyments of her home, the fondness 
of her parents, the sympathy of her sister, the pleasant, unre- 
strained companionship of Alice ; but Ruth’s mind was con- 
tinually wandering forth to the unknown years which lay before 
her, seeking to know what she should do, how she should feel, 
where her lot would be cast. And in those wanderings, those 
visions of a life yet more blest, more exciting and engrossing 
than was yet granted her, the one great ingredient of happiness 


388 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


was always a perfect affection. Mr Clifford had now told her 
of means by which this vision of happiness might be realised ; 
and Ruth’s trust in her father’s truth made her listen to him 
with a degree of confidence which she might not otherwise have 
felt. She saw that he was speaking from his own personal 
experience, and she could, in a certain way, suppose it possible 
one day to do the same. But as yet the deep realities of reli- 
gion, its power of occupying the mind and satisfying the heart, 
were to Ruth like the description of a foreign country to a per- 
son who has never beheld it. Its existence is fully believed, 
but it presents to the imagination only an unsubstantial picture. 
Perhaps it was not possible that, at such an early age, Ruth 
should enter fully into the conversation which had just passed ; 
and before the peace which Mr Clifford had described could, 
even in the future, be hers, there was much, very much to be 
done. Ruth’s conscience told her this whilst her father was 
talking with her ; and w'hen he had left her, the conviction re- 
turned more strongly. 

Since the visit to Redford Church, Ruth’s mind had never 
been entirely at rest. She had mentioned to her mother the 
interview with Mrs De Lacy and Florence, and the fact of 
having spent a few minutes at Sheldon Lodge. The acknow- 
ledgment did not require much moral courage, for Mrs Clifford 
was too considerate to find fault where apparently no harm was 
intended. Mrs De Lacy was a person whom every one visited, 
and Mrs Clifford herself called upon her almost immediately 
afterwards, and although it happened they did not meet, yet the 
acquaintance was put upon a regular footing. 

But Ruth was not the happier because her mamma was kind : 
it was more than she knew herself to deserve. It was not that 
she could accuse herself of having done anything seriously 
wrong ; but she had consulted her own will all that afternoon 
at Redford. She had overlooked the question of what might 
please her mother most, and had followed her own inclination ; 
and, as a punishment it seemed, she had been led into a secret — 
a trifling one apparently, but still a secret. Ruth had that 
fretting sense of uneasiness continually about her, which is the 
natural consequence of a heart not right with God. She tried 
to put aside the idea of having been in any way to blame, or 
having brought a secret upon herself. She could not make up 
her mind to practise any close self-examination ; and, forget- 
ting her own needs, she thought only of Alice. 

When she begged Alice to attend to her duty at the school, 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


389 


and when, by eagerness and perseverance, she gained her point, 
there was something pleasant to dwell upon. She could look 
back to her outward acts, and be satisfied. 

And this was the way in which Ruth found rest for her con- 
science now, when it suggested that something was not quite 
right within ; and that this ‘ something' must be rooted out 
before it would be in the least possible to attain, even in the 
faintest degree, the happiness in religion which her father had 
described. 

She said to herself that she would be more energetic than 
ever in doing all that was to be done at home, and would strive 
to keep Alice up to her resolutions ; and she thought of one or 
two ways in which she might be more useful in the school ; 
and then the feeling of self-contentment glided unobserved into 
her breast, and she was at peace. 

There are tw^o kinds of peace — true and false. 

‘ Ruth, you will walk back with me to the Manor,' said Alice, 
when luncheon was over. ‘ Lady Catharine will be home soon, 
so I must not stay here.’ 

There was an accent of bitterness in this remark which did 
not escape Mr Clifford’s ear. He stopped as he was leaving 
the room, and said, ‘ Lady Catharine likes to be welcomed, I 
suppose. Every one does. Half the pleasure of going out is 
the satisfaction of having some one to hear all you have done 
when you return.’ 

Alice blushed a little, but repeated her request to Ruth, say- 
ing it would be dull to wait by herself. 

Ruth had in her mind the recollection of a previous engage- 
ment, and Madeline reminded her of it. They were to take a 
small parcel of clothes to a woman at the other end of the 
parish. 

‘It is a dreadfully disagreeable day,’ said Ruth, who hap- 
pened to have on a neat new morning dress ; ‘ would it do to 
wait till to-morrow .? ’ 

‘ We promised,’ replied Madeline ; ‘ that is, if we could 
manage it.’ 

‘ But you cannot, because of its being so dirty,’ interposed 
Alice ; ‘ that settles the matter.’ 

‘ No, indeed, Alice,’ exclaimed Ruth, laughing; ‘one cannot 
manage things quite so easily as that. If we have promised, 
we must go, though it is dirty.’ 

‘ Then you will not consider me,’ said Alice, with an air of 


390 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


disappointment ; ‘ and I have not said a word to you about the 
school ; and I thought we should have had time for a nice talk 
before Lady Catharine came in/ 

‘ What do you say, Maddy ? ’ asked Ruth ; ‘ do you think 
v/e can put it off ? ’ 

‘ No,’ replied Madeline, without hesitation ; ‘ Alice will have 
a good many opportunities of talking about the school before 
it is her turn to go again ; but Mrs Corbin wants the clothes 
very much.’ 

‘ Only you need not both go, I suppose,’ said Alice. 

‘ Mamma does not like our walking so far alone,’ answered 
Madeline. 

^ I declare you are quite provoking to-day, Madeline,’ said 
Alice. ‘ You put obstacles in the way of everything I propose,’ 

Madeline’s cheek crimsoned with anger, and a half-uttered 
word escaped her lips. She walked to the window, and stood 
looking out of it for a few moments. 

‘ You should not be unkind to Madeline,’ observed Ruth, in 
a low tone to Alice. 

Alice began to excuse herself. 

Presently Madeline came back to them, and said, ^ I have 
thought what we can do. Martha, our housemaid, was to go 
this afternoon to see her mother, who lives very near Mrs 
Corbin. I will take her with me.’ 

‘ That will not be quite as pleasant as if I were with you,’ 
said Ruth. 

‘ No ! ’ and Madeline smiled sweetly. * There are not many 
things as pleasant as to have you with me, but I should like you 
to go with Alice.’ 

‘ Thank you, Maddy, ver}'- much indeed,’ said Alice, coming 
forward and giving her a kiss. ‘ I shall enjoy my half-hour’s 
talk with Ruth immensely.’ 

Madeline hoped she would, and left the room. Ruth fol- 
lowed her. 

‘ Maddy, it seems unkind to let you go alone; but the fact 
is, I do want to talk to Alice. I have a great deal to say to her 
about the school ; and I really think she is beginning to listen 
to me. It would be an immense pity to miss doing her good if 
one has the opportunity.’ 

‘ Yes, indeed, it would. I am so delighted that she will 
let you talk to her. Nobody else will be of as much use to 
her.’ 


LANE JON PARSONAGE. 


391 

And you don’t very much mind ? ’ inquired Ruth, affection- 
ately. 

‘ Mind ! oh, no ! not in the least ; and I shall have all Mrs 
Corbin’s gratitude to myself to console me.’ 

Madeline ran merrily up the stairs. Ruth stood below, 
slightly uncomfortable. 

Just then Mr Clifford came out of his room. 

* In a brown study, Ruth? what is the matter? What are 
you going to do with yourself this afternoon ? ’ 

* I am going back to the Manor with Alice,’ answered Ruth. 

‘ To the Manor, are you ? but that is not a very long walk 
for a summer’s afternoon. I thought you and Madeline were 
to have taken Mrs Corbin’s parcel to her ? ’ 

‘ Yes, so we intended, papa ; but Alice wished me to be with 
her, and then Madeline said she would walk alone ; that is, not 
alone exactly, but with Martha. Martha is going to see her 
mother.’ 

‘ Oh ! ’ was all Mr Clifford’s reply, as he leaned- against the 
balustrade, thinking. 

Ruth was not entirely pleased with the ^ Oh ! ’ it seemed like 
dissatisfaction. She was going away, but her father called her 
back. 

‘ Ruth, my child, do you remember the conversation we had 
the other night about Alice ?’ 

‘ Yes, papa,’ said Ruth, blushing. 

‘ I only wished to remind you of it. Don’t set your heart 
upon converting and influencing Alice ; you will go tvrong if 
you do.’ 

‘ But, dear papa, may I not make her do right if I can ?’ 

‘ By all means, to the very utmost ; but take care that you do 
not go the wrong way to work. Remember, we must think of 
our own duties first.’ 

* Yes, papa, of course.’ 

After those words, ‘ of course,’ there was nothing more to be 
said. Besides, Mr Clifford was just then particularly engaged. 

Ruth returned to the drawing-room, and found her mamma 
there, ready with the parcel for Mrs Corbin. Mrs Clifford 
looked a little disappointed when Ruth mentioned her inten- 
tion of going to the Manor. 

‘ It would be a dull, disagreeable walk for Madeline,’ she said ; 
‘ and Alice would not have long to remain alone ; and Mrs 
Corbin had wished particularly -to see Ruth. If you remember, 


392 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


my dear/ she continued, ‘ it was your own proposal to go to her, 
when your papa told you she was one of the persons you might 
read to occasionally.’ 

‘Yes,’ answered Ruth, hesitatingly; ‘but I thought’ 

She stopped. ‘ No, I did not think about it; but Madeline 
could read instead of me.’ 

‘ I will not interfere with you, my love ; do as you feel it best. 
You know I am always glad for you to be any pleasure or com- 
fort to Alice.’ 

Nothing more was said. Ruth could scarcely tell why she 
felt as if she was doing wrong. She spent several moments in 
thinking, and at last decided that it was a mere waste of time to 
worry herself with over-scrupulousness. She could see no harm ; 
and neither her papa nor her mamma had found actual fault with 
her, so that there could be no precise reason for not keeping her 
engagement with Alice, in the hope possibly of being of service 
to her. 

And Ruth was not absolutely faulty in her decision. It was 
not the question whether or not she should go to the Manor 
which caused her disquietude. It was the consciousness that 
she had been consulting her own wishes ; looking first to in- 
clination, and then to duty, and so allowing her judgment to be 
biassed. 

Still she' went ; it would have been unkind, she thought, to 
Alice not to do so. And still she hoped that by going she might 
be of use in strengthening Alice in the path of duty. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


UTH and Alice pursued their walk to the Manor in silence. 



X V Ruth’s zeal for Alice’s improvement had received a check, 
and Alice was apparently occupied with a subject of sufficient 
interest to stop the usual flow of her conversation. They had 
entered the park before either of them spoke, and then it was 
Alice, who said — 

‘ Maddy is excessively good ; but she is not a bit like you, 
Ruth.’ 

‘ No,’ replied Ruth, laughing. ‘ Mamma often says we have 
the most twin-like faces, and the most untwin-like minds, of 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


393 

any persons she ever knew. The wonder is we get along so 
well together.’ 

‘ I don’t know what it is about her,’ pursued Alice ; ‘ but 
sometimes I think I am afraid of her : and yet it is very strange, 
I am not afraid either — it would be absurd : she is so much 
younger, and I can say all sorts of nonsense to her, much more 
than I can to you.’ 

‘ I am graver than she is, naturally,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Yes, so you are : yet Madeline is not like the girls at school, 
though I am sure we used to talk nonsense enough.’ 

^ There can be no doubt of that,’ observed Ruth. 

‘ Ah ! but not in your days ; we were pieces of perfection 
then. After you went was the time. There was no one to 
keep order. Florence and I used to say it was very wrong, 
but you know we had no power to stop anything.’ 

‘ I should not have thought Florence cared about it,’ said 
Ruth. 

‘ I daresay you would not : you have a prejudice against 
her.’ 

‘ No, Alice, not a prejudice ; that means a feeling without a 
reason. Now I have quite a sufficient reason for distrusting 
Florence ; ’ and, as she said this, Ruth’s voice was a little 
harried. ‘ But really and truly I have no prejudice against her. 
I liked her a great deal better the other day ; and I should 
have liked her a great deal more if it had not been for that 
stupid nonsense about Justine.’ 

‘ Florence is not so wrong there,’ said Alice, mysteriously. 

‘ So you have told me two or three times when we have talked 
about it. But what am I to think ? How can it be necessary 
to exact a promise 1 I am not going to spread a bad report of 
J ustine everywhere ; it would be uncharitable. At the same 
time, there can be no harm in saying that we knew her at Mrs 
Carter’s.’ 

‘That would bring on other questions, and would be dangerous. 
I cannot explain exactly why, but it would be ; and at all events, 
now your promise is given.’ 

This was a very provoking fact to be reminded of. It made 
Ruth hasten on a little before Alice, and relapse into silence. 

‘ One thing, Ruth, I must tell you,’ said Alice, renewing the 
conversation, as they entered her own sitting-room, just at the 
point at which it had been broken off ; ‘ that you don’t know 
the good you may do by having made such a promise. Florence 


394 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


will be obliged to you always, and so will Justine ; and if you 
take care, you may guide them to anything you like/ 

‘ Guide Justine ! ’ exclaimed Ruth, surprised ; ‘ but she is not 
going to stay in this neighbourhood ?’ 

‘ Possibly ; you must not ask questions — perhaps she may 
some time or other ; and if she does, you may do a great deal 
for her. And as for Florence herself, she says that she can 
never imagine you as young as you are ; and that when she 
met you the other day, she felt at once that you were just 
as superior as you used to be.’ 

Alice spoke without any intention of flattery. Flattery be- 
tween girls, who had known each other intimately from child- 
hood, was out of the question. Perhaps it was the knowledge 
of this which made Ruth listen wnth patience to such undisguised 
praise. She made but a slight effort to turn the conversation 
by saying — 

‘ And when did you and Florence find time for this long 
discourse about me ? ’ 

‘ Oh ! when we w'ere together at the lower end of the church ; 
Florence began the subject directly. She was anxious to know 
whether I thought you would agree to keep Justine’s secret.’ 

‘ And what did you say ? ’ 

‘ I could not tell ; I w'as afraid not. I thought you disliked 
secrets ; and I was to have asked you about it : but seeing 
Justine took us by surprise. Florence did not expect her till an 
hour later.’ < 

Here Alice went away to take off her walking dress, and left 
Ruth standing moodily by the fire-place^ thinking how silly she 
liad been in giving a promise which after all it seemed Florence 
scarcely expected to receive. However, as the common and 
most delusive saying is, ‘ the thing was done and could not be 
helped, and she must make the best of it ; ’ which just then 
meant to forget it. 

With a view to forgetfulness, Ruth began another subject 
when Alice came back. 

‘ We will talk a little now about your troubles and the school, 
Alice; shall we?’ 

Alice’s troubles, however, dated further back than the school. 

They originated in w'hat she called Lady Catharine’s ‘ tire- 
someness.’ The school was a secondary consideration ; 
perhaps in time she might learn to manage and teach, 
but the home worries were unendurable ; and she began a 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


395 

narration similar to that to which Ruth had many times 
listened before. 

Ruth, however, dexterously diverted the current of her ideas. 
She had already given all the advice that was to be given, as 
to patience, humility, gratitude, reverence ; and she had quick- 
ness enough to perceive that one thing which Alice required 
was to be furnished with interesting occupation, to prevent her 
from dwelling peevishly upon trifles. She referred again, there- 
fore, to the school, and her own difficulties when first she com- 
menced teaching, and the mode in which she had overcome 
them by taking her father’s advice. From the school, she pro- 
ceeded to speak of the poor people, and to ask whether Alice 
w'ould be inclined to join with Madeline and herself in saving 
up money to buy clothes, and make them; and whether she 
could assist them by keeping the accounts of the shoe club; all 
which pleased Alice, and made her feel herself a person of some 
use in the world. 

‘ You are very, very kind, dear Ruth,’ she said, when Ruth 
had made these propositions. ‘ You are never worried or out of 
temper, and you are always ready to help me. I think I may 
be good for something after all — don’t you — if I take to the 
schools and the poor people.?’ 

‘ Who ever doubted it .?’ said Ruth, amused at the simplicity 
of the question. 

‘ I doubt it very often,’ replied Alice, with a sudden change 
of manner. ‘ You don’t know me, Ruth ; you, who are so good, 
and have always been good — you don’t know what thoughts 
are in my mind sometimes ; they would frighten- you, they are 
so wild and strange — as if it was impossible, as if it was not 
meant I should be good. But people can be good if they like, 
can’t they.?’ 

‘ Alice,’ said Ruth, earnestly ; ‘ I wish you would talk to 
papa.’ 

‘ I cannot, he frightens me : and he would not understand. 
To-day, when he spoke to me, I could not have answered him, 
as he wished to be answered, for all the world. There is no 
one but you, Ruth ; no one ! When we were at school, I could 
liave said more to you than to any person ; only you were never 
inclined to listen.’ 

Ruth turned to her with an expression of real interest which 
could not be mistaken. 

‘ 1 am willing to listen to you at all times, upon every subject, 


396 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


dear Alice/ she said ; ^ but you sometimes own that you are 
changeable. When you change, it can be no wonder that I 
should change likewise. And though you say I would not listen 
to you at school, you must remember that whilst you professed 
to be fond of me, you were always going with others ; and espe- 
cially with some whom I particularly disliked: and now you 
have Florence Trevelyan.’ 

‘ Florence ! that is absurd ! How could Florence ever be your 
rival } ’ 

‘ Because you would make her so. You do not know your 
own mind. If Florence is to be with you much, she will guide 
you entirely.’ 

‘ Never. I have no respect for her judgment, though I like 
her. But you might guide her.’ 

‘ I ! ’ exclaimed Ruth. ‘ I ! who am so much younger ! ’ 

‘ Yes ; because she respects you.’ 

‘ If Florence thinks about respecting people,’ said Ruth, ‘ she 
had better not have secrets with Justine le Vergnier.’ 

‘ It is only one secret. The fact is, that poor Justine has had 
a good deal of trouble, and Florence knows it ; and now it 
would be unkind to cast her off, and do her harm.’ 

‘ All a mysteiy,’ said Ruth, shaking her head. 

‘ But you cannot blame her for being kind, at any rate/ 
continued Alice ; ‘ and you cannot blame me for calling her im- 
proved — years ago she would have thought only of herself.’ 

‘ Yes, that is true,’ answered Ruth. 

‘ And now she is in the neighbourhood, and you may do her 
good/ pursued Alice ; ‘ only you must not be jealous.’ 

Ruth smiled at the word ‘ jealous.’ It was much too strong 
for any feeling which she entertained either towards Alice or 
Florence. 

‘ I am not in the least jealous,’ she replied ; ‘ but, as I said 
before, I should like you to know your own mind.’ 

‘ Hark ! was not that the hall bell .?’ exclaimed Alice. ‘ Did 
you hear a carriage.^ How extremely unfortunate ! ’ She ran 
to the door and listened. ‘ Yes ; she is come home. How tire- 
some ! Ruth, dear, just let me give you one caution. If Lady 
Catharine talks about Florence, don’t speak as if I was anything 
of a friend of hers ; I mean anything particular. Take care 
what you say, that is all.’ 

‘ Alice ! Alice !’ exclaimed Ruth, with a look of great annoy- 
ance ; ‘ how can you bear to have mysteries about everything ? 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


397 

So foolish it is; so extremely silly — and wrong too! Why must 
not Lady Catharine know all that you say or do 

‘ It is a mere trifle, no harm_,^ answered Alice. ‘ Only there 
was a foolish mistake of mine the other morning, I can’t explain 
now ; but there is really no harm. Won’t you believe me ?’ 

Ruth turned silently away. 

‘ Good-bye to confidence, then,’ exclaimed Alice. ‘ How 
could I have been so absurd as to think you cared for me ! ’ 

‘ You don’t give me your confidence,’ said Ruth, quietly. 
‘You do things first, and ask me to conceal them afterwards.’ 

‘ Do things first ! Really, Ruth, you are too silly. One 
would think I had committed murder, and wanted you to hide 
it. But we won’t talk about it.’ 

Alice was going away to meet Lady Catharine. Ruth pre- 
vented her. 

‘ I have no wish to be in any way unkind to you, Alice ; 
but, if you will take my advice, you will give up mysteries.’ 

‘ I always meant to take your advice for the future ; but this 
is a case past.’ 

Ruth saw that Alice was growing proud and angry. She 
thought of the suggestions she had just given regarding the 
school and the poor people. Alice seemed upon the point of 
attending to them, and they would materially aid in forming 
her character. If she were checked in her good inclinations 
they might not return, and what she required was more silence 
than anything else. It would be easy on another occasion to 
show her that she was wrong. These ideas passed rapidly 
through Ruth’s mind. 

‘ Well ! let it be for this once,’ she said, hastily ; ‘ but we 
must talk more upon the subject by and by.’ 

‘ Thank you a thousand times. And you will love me still 1 ’ 
said Alice, giving her a hearty kiss. ‘ I love you dearly.’ 

The kiss was returned, but Ruth was not certain of the desired 
love, and evaded an answer. 

‘ Is Miss Lennox within 1 ’ was Lady Catharine’s first inquiry 
after giving some particular directions respecting the purchases 
made at Cottington, and sending a message to the groom to 
look carefully after the two fat carriage horses, as they had had 
a hard day’s work. 

‘ Miss Lennox and Miss Clifford had been in the house more 
than an hour,’ was the reply received ; and if Alice had seen 
the gleam of pleasure which lighted up Lady Catharine’s face at 


LANETON parsonage. 


398 

the mere mention of her name, she might have been satisfied 
that her absence or presence were no matters of indifference. 
Lady Catharine really walked quickly up the stairs. 

‘ Well, my love ! ' she exclaimed, as she entered the apart- 
ment ; ‘ I thought I should surprise you. I have returned 
sooner than I expected/ 

‘ We heard the carriage, ma’am,’ answered Alice. 

This chilling answer was quite sufficient for Lady Catharine. 
She turned to Ruth. ^ And how long have you been here, my 
dear I did not know Alice would have a companion whilst 
I was away.’ 

Ruth answered the question ; and Lady Catharine put several 
others formally, and with that air of indifference which betrays 
thoughts wandering to other subjects. 

Alice offered to take her bonnet and shawl away. 

Lady Catharine thanked her, but declined rather coldly ; and 
taking a note from her reticule, gave it to her, saying, ‘ Miss 
Trevelyan sent you this, Alice ; it is an invitation, I believe, to 
a picnic. Mrs De Lacy mentioned the subject to me, but I 
have not decided upon accepting it. And here is an invitation 
for your mamma, also, Ruth ; which I offered to bring.’ 

Alice kept her note unopened till Lady Catharine was gone. 
It was a long one, and two or three times whilst Alice was 
perusing it she looked anxiously towards the door, and listened. 
When she had finished, she replaced it in the envelope in 
evident perplexity. 

‘ Shall you wish to go ? ’ inquired Ruth. 

‘ Yes ; I think J should like it ; but’ — here Alice paused, and 
her colour changed as the sound of a closing door at the end of 
the passage warned them that Lady Catharine might be about 
to return. ‘ Ruth,’ she continued, speaking in a hurried tone, 
‘ I should be so much obliged if you could do me a favour.’ 

‘ Well ! what ? ’ 

‘ This note — if you would take it. Florence writes so fool- 
ishly, I can’t show it to Lady Catharine. I told her to be care- 
ful, but she is not. If you would take it and go.’ 

‘ I ! ’ repeated Ruth ; ‘ it is not mine.’ 

‘ But don’t you understand ? If you have it ; if you take it 
home, you can burn it, or keep it ; in short, I can say that you 
have it , and if Lady Catharine asks to see it, there will be an 
answer ready. It is only just for once ; indeed, it shall not 
happen again.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


399 


* This system of yours is entirely wrong, Alice, ^ replied Ruth ; 
* and, if you persist in it, you will repent it. You never can con- 
tinue to keep your confidence from Lady Catharine without 
getting into difficulties.^ 

‘ I know it quite well,’ answered Alice ; ‘ but this is a pecu- 
liar case. As I told you, there was a stupid mistake the other 
morning, and this note will only puzzle Lady Catharine. I will 
take care that Florence shall not write in the same way again. 
To prove to you that there is no harm in the note, I do not in 
the least mind your seeing it.’ As she said this, Alice put the 
paper into Ruth’s hand. ^ Do go, please go,’ she continued ; 
‘ it shall all be explained another day.’ 

‘ I had rather not,’ replied Ruth, laying the note on the 
table. 

‘ O Ruth ! how unkind ! And I thought you loved me ! ’ 

‘ But, Alice, I cannot see that it is right.’ 

Alice’s answer was in a tone of nervous anxiety. ^ Ruth, if 
you would only believe me — only trust me — I wish to be 
guided by you in everything.’ 

* And if I say that Lady Catharine ought to see it, will you 
show it to-morrow ? ’ inquired Ruth. 

‘ Yes, yes ; to-morrow, or some day ; anything you please. 
Dear Ruth ! I depend upon you more than upon any one.’ 

Lady Catharine’s voice was heard. Alice opened the door. 
‘ Pray, pray go ; good-bye.’ 

‘ But it will be strange for me to be gone in such a moment,’ 
said Ruth. 

‘No, no ; she understands that you have heaps of engage- 
ments.’ 

‘ And you will do what I tell you ? ’ 

‘ Yes, you shall advise me entirely.’ 

Ruth, still with a hesitating step, drew near the door ; then, 
as Lady Catharine was really heard approaching, she gave Alice 
a hasty shake of the hand, and ran down-stairs. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

R UTH’S first impulse, when she found herself walking quietly 
through the park, out of reach of Lady Catharine’s quick 
eye, was to open Florence Trevelyan’s note. Yet, as she did 


400 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


so, the feeling which prompted her to look round and see if any 
person was near, was unusual and disagreeable. It was the 
sense of being a party to deception, of all things most galling to 
the conscience of one like Ruth, sincere both by nature and 
education. And when the note was first read, it seemed as if 
there could have been no cause for Alice’s uneasiness. Florence 
wrote warmly, entreating Alice to persuade Lady Catharine to 
allow her to join in a picnic party, which was to take place 
soon, though the exact day was not fixed. Ruth could not 
comprehend why Alice should have objected to Lady Catha- 
rine’s seeing this ; but after a second perusal, she turned to the 
other side of the paper, and perceived an additional sentence : 
‘ I am not the only person wishing to see you ; things are go- 
ing just as we wished ; they are all but settled.’ 

Ruth uttered an exclamation of disgust. These perpetual 
mysteries were becoming intolerable. The person referred to 
must be Justine ; but what was meant by all things being 
settled, was beyond Ruth’s comprehension. She pondered much 
upon the subject as she sauntered leisurely home, purposely pro- 
longing her walk that she might have leisure for thought. 

The conclusion at which she arrived was no explanation of 
the note ; but simply a determination to use her utmost efforts 
to persuade Alice to be open in all cases ; and, as a commence- 
ment, to have no more communications with Florence Trevelyan 
which could not be made known to Lady Catharine. 

Ruth’s engagements for the next day were fixed. Her morn- 
ing studies had been marked out for her by her mother, and her 
afternoon employment had been settled by her father. She had 
no spare moments ; yet when Mrs Clifford expressed a wish to 
have a book taken to the Manor, Ruth threw aside her history, 
and proposed to be the bearer of it. Madeline, however, inter- 
posed, saying that she was obliged to go into the village on some 
business of Mrs Corbin’s ; and, as she should pass the Manor 
lodge, the book might be left there. Ruth looked somewhat 
annoyed, and was vexed, she said, to lose the walk as it was so 
fine — a declaration which surprised Madeline not a little; 
Ruth’s usual theory being, that to go out early after breakfast 
was to destroy the comfort of the day. No one, however, 
could do Mrs Corbin’s business as well as Madeline, and the 
affair was quickly settled, Ruth sitting down again to her his- 
tory ; then beginning a note to Alice, which was presently torn 
to atoms, and recurring once more to her book, with the 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 401 

unpleasant consciousness that her words had not been quite 
sincere. 

Madeline set out on her walk with a light heart, which was 
not the less light that something of the merry thoughtlessness of 
childhood had left her for ever. It was not mere external attrac- 
tion which could now give her pleasure. The loveliness of the 
scenery around Laneton, with the cottages peeping from amongst 
masses of trees ; the sunshine glancing over the meadows ; the 
blue mists upon the distant hills ; the white,* curling foam of 
the waves rolling in upon the shore; and the vast, illimitable sky 
seeming to embrace all earthly beauty in an atmosphere of purity, 
had now a deeper and a truer meaning than in former years she 
could see or understand ; for these things were not merely 
pleasant to the eye — they were the signs of the love of God. 
Madeline’s mind was just opening to the perception that reli- 
gion adds tenfold to the enjoyment of life as it takes tenfold 
from its bitterness ; the efforts so early made were bringing their 
reward ; and even her duties, as they became habitual, began 
to be agreeable. 

And the ways of religion are indeed ways of pleasantness : 
the yoke of Christ is indeed an easy yoke. No words were 
ever more true ; but the ‘ ways ’ must be entered upon betimes 
— the ^yoke’ must be submitted to in youth. It seems that one 
could pray for an angel’s eloquence to persuade those who are 
just beginning life that it is so. 

Once let them yield themselves to be the children of God in 
heart as well as by their baptismal privileges, and there is a 
clear, straight, sunshiny, though not cloudless path, marked out 
for them through the toils and dangers of the wilderness of life, 
to the rest of the blessed in Paradise. If any doubt, let them 
ask those who have gone before. 

Who ever gave himself to God in the spring-time of life, and 
repented in the dreary winter of old age ? Who ever looked 
back upon the years gone by, and grieved that they had been 
devoted to his Saviour ? Who ever lay upon his death-bed, 
eternity opening before him, and the sentence of judgment 
awaiting him, and did not turn with thankfulness and love un- 
utterable to the remembrance that, amidst all his manifold 
imperfections, he had been enabled, whilst his heart was yet 
untainted by grievous sin, to offer himself, his soul and body, to 
be ‘ a reasonable, holy, and lively sacrifice ’ to the Almighty 
Lord, by ^vhose death he was redeemed ? 

2 c 


402 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Madeline Clifford was very happy. She knew that in one 
sense she could not remain so ; since trouble must sooner or 
later come to her, as it comes to all. Still she was very happy ; 
for if ever she thought of the future, she thought also of One 
who would never forsake her ; and what trial could overwhelm 
her when He was with her 1 

That morning’s walk was a thorough enjoyment to her ; her 
business was soon settled, and a short distance farther brought 
her to the Manor lodge. No one was within except a little 
child, and Madeline, afraid of entrusting the book to her, con- 
sidered it would be better, even at the risk of being late in 
returning, to carry it herself to the house. As she drew near, 
she caught sight of Alice, through the iron railing which separ- 
ated the garden from the park, sauntering slowly up and down 
the terrace. Madeline called to her, and Alice’s face brightened 
instantly, and hastening to the gate, she threw it open, and 
begged Madeline to join her. 

‘ I have a book for Lady Catharine,’ said Madeline : ‘ will you 
take it for her ? I have no time to wait, for I have done scarcely 
anything this morning at home, and mamma will be vexed if I 
am not back soon.’ 

Alice laughed. 

‘ Why, Madeline, one would think you were a baby in the 
school-room still. I thought you were out of all that parti- 
cularity.’ 

‘ So I am,’ answered Madeline, ^ partly ; but one wishes to 
please mamma just the same.’ 

‘ Such trifles cannot signify,’ said Alice. ‘ You make yourself 
as badly off as I am. What do you think now of Lady Catha- 
rine’s insisting upon my walking up and down here for an hour 
every morning } ’ 

‘ That I wish you may never have anything more disagreeable 
to do,’ replied Madeline, with a smile, as she gave the book to 
Alice, and wished her good-bye. 

^ Well ! but tell me,’ said Alice, detaining her ; ‘ does your 
mamma treat you in the same way ? ’ 

‘ She wishes us to walk every morning, as you know,’ replied 
Madeline ; ‘ and we generally do before breakfast.’ 

^ That is what Lady Catharine wants me to do,’ said Alice ; 
* but it does not suit me ; and then she worries so.’ 

Madeline had a strong inclination to stop and give Alice some 
good advice ; but the church clock struck eleven. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


403 


‘ I must go/ she exclaimed. ‘ Alice, dear, will you let me say 
one thing ? If you would just make up your mind to please Lady 
Catharine in these trifles, I think you would be happier. GTood-bye 
— give me a kiss ; I daresay we shall meet again by and by.^ 

Alice said ‘ Good-bye ^ in a tone of some annoyance, and 
could not forbear adding, ‘ You are so dreadfully particular and 
punctual, Madeline. When do you mean to get out of leading 
strings ? ’ 

‘ Never,’ said Madeline, playfully, as she closed the garden 
gate, and once more nodding to Alice, set off on her walk home. 

Alice looked wistfully after her ; perplexing thoughts seemed 
working in her mind. She drew a note from her pocket, and 
stood gazing upon the direction with an air of irresolution. 
Presently, as if suddenly determined, she threw open the iron 
gate and ran after Madeline, who was proceeding leisurely 
through the park. 

Madeline heard her footsteps without knowing who was behind 
her. She looked round a little startled. 

‘ You walk so fast,’ began Alice, nearly breathless with the 
haste she had made. ‘ I thought I never should reach you.’ 

‘ How tiresome of me!’ exclaimed Madeline. ^ Dear Alice, 
you are quite out of breath. What is it you want ?’ 

* Nothing particular ; only a trifle,’ replied Alice, embarrass- 
ment succeeding to her former eagerness and irritation. ^ Only 
just — will you take this letter to the post for me as you go by.’ 

‘ Yes, at least — to the post, did you say — it is not near post 
time.’ 

* I am quite aware of that ; but will you take it ? I want it 
to go. What are you afraid of.?’ 

‘Nothing,’ exclaimed Madeline, a little impatiently. ‘ I am 
not afraid of anything.’ Then, in a more subdued voice, she 
added, ‘ I do not mind taking this letter, or any letter, Alice ; 
but I cannot think why you ask it.’ 

‘ I have a very good reason,’ said Alice. ‘ There can be no 
harm in the letter : you see it is only to Florence Trevelyan.’ 
As she said this, Alice held the direction for Madeline to see. 

‘ Florence Trevelyan ! there can be no harm, certainly; but, 
Alice, if you would not think me curious, I wish you could give 
me a reason for not sending the letter with the others.’ 

‘ Oh, I have a very simple reason, if that is what you want,' 
replied Alice, assuming an air of indifference. ‘ I cannot have 
Lady Catharine piying into my correspondence.’ 


404 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


‘ She sees your’ letters, then ?’ 

‘ Yes, generally. There is no rule about it ; but she remarks 
whom I'write to, and rather complains if I send too many to the 
same person ; and, in fact, I must be independent. So will you 
please just take my letter and put it into the post as you go by ?’ 

Madeline made no answer. Alice held out the letter, but she 
did not take it. 

‘ I thought you were immensely good-natured as well as 
strict,^ said Alice. 

‘ I should like to be good-natured — I wish to be,’ answered 
Madeline, and the manner in which she spoke was so child- 
like and artless, that Alice could scarcely forbear smiling. 

‘ Well, then, take my letter, like a darling.’ 

‘ But I would rather do right than be good-natured,’ con- 
tinued Madeline, with the same simplicity, and seeming to speak 
her thoughts aloud without reference to Alice’s presence. 

Alice looked back to the garden to be certain that she was 
not observed. ‘ Come, say yes or no ; be quick, Maddy.’ 

‘ What I think, Alice,’ answered Madeline, ‘ is that one ought 
not to set one’s self up ; I mean, one ought not to go against the 
persons one is with — do you see.^’ 

‘ No ; I see nothing, except that you are amazingly absurd 
and provoking,’ exclaimed Alice. 

* I would not be if I could help it, Alice ; but somehow, 
I should not like to do anything Lady Catharine might not 
approve.’ 

‘ Really, Madeline, you are a complete baby. Do you think 
that at sixteen I am going to worry myself about every trifle, 
by considering whether Lady Catharine would approve ? At 
that rate I might be tormenting myself all day long. She 
never approves of anything. She is as particular as — as ’ — 
Alice could find no satisfactory simile, and satisfied herself by 
adding, ‘Juno ! — it is a capital name for her. She is a com- 
plete Juno.’ 

‘ It is the particularity I am thinking of,’ replied Madeline, 
taking no notice of the latter part of Alice’s speech. ‘ If she is 
so particular ’ 

‘ What then ? if she is so particular ’ 

‘ Why — you must not be angry, Alice — I don’t think you can 
quite know better than Lady Catharine ; and if she is like your 
mamma, it seems as if you ought to obey her. Please don’t 
vex about the letter ; I would do anything for you I could, 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


405 


indeed I would ; but I don’t think this would be quite right.’ 
Madeline once more said ‘ Good-bye,’ and was walking home- 
wards before Alice could tell what reply to make, or what 
argument or reproach to use. 

Alice stood gazing after her, as with a light, elastic step, she 
went on, neither pausing nor looking behind her, neither turning 
to the right hand nor to the left ; bent only on one purpose — 
reaching home in good time. Madeline’s movements were 
entirely the index of her mind — free and firm, and yet child- 
like. They were quite different from Ruth’s calmer, steadier, 
more thoughtful air. Alice, vexed though she was, could not 
help watching her with interest, in which was mingled a feeling 
of respect, as she threaded her way by short by-paths, amidst 
the intricacies of the trees, sometimes hidden, sometimes re- 
appearing, and at last becoming little more than a dark spot in 
the distance. Alice lost sight of her at last, and then she 
turned herself and went back to the house. 

Lady Catharine met her at the iron gate. ‘ My dear, I 
thought my wish was that you should not go beyond the 
garden.’ 

‘ Madeline Clifford has just been here,’ replied Alice, evading 
an excuse. ‘ She brought a book from the Parsonage.’ 

‘ Give it me, my love, at once ; it may be of consequence.’ 

Alice’s latent ill-temper was roused by Lady Catharine’s tone 
of command and the half-implied reproach. She answered 
coldly that Madeline had not been gone many minutes, and 
giving the book to Lady Catharine, went to her room. Again 
the disappointed look might have been seen on Lady Catharine’s 
face. She walked up and down the terrace buried in self-examina- 
tion. What was her error in Alice’s education ? What 
mistake was she committing which could thus estrange her 
affection ? or was Alice really cold and selfish ? Was it possible 
that the child of the gentle, affectionate Mrs Lennox, could be 
insensible to all the love which was bestowed upon her ? Perhaps 
she was too exacting, too particular ; but this was only a passing 
fear. Lady Catharine had given up so many of her long-estab- 
lished habits, and had overcome so much of her natural precision 
in order not to be a restraint upon Alice, that it was difficult for 
her to imagine that anything of the kind which remained could 
really be galling. A different answer to the question suggested 
itself. Alice must need change and companionship of her own 
age. Ruth and Madeline could not be with her always, and 


4o6 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


Ruth was too grave, and Madeline too child-like, perhaps, to 
suit her. 

Lady Catharine disliked few things more than the idea of 
having the regularity of her household disturbed by an additional 
inmate, young and gay, and requiring amusement ; yet, whilst 
Alice sat brooding over her fancied miseries, and tormenting 
herself with schemes for sending a private note to Florence 
Trevelyan, Lady Catharine was planning how she could arrange 
to receive and entertain a visitor — one of Alice’s school friends, 
any one whom she might prefer, and whom Mrs Carter could 
recommend. She resolved to write to Mrs Carter by that day’s 
post, and ask her opinion as to which of Alice’s former com- 
panions it would be preferable to have. Florence Trevelyan 
might have been asked at once, but Alice appeared to have 
taken so little interest in her, that it seemed scarcely probable 
she would like it, and Lady Catharine put her aside as not to 
be thought of. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 



UTH was disappointed in her hope of seeing Alice for two 


J-X- days. She had therefore full leisure to think over her last 
conversation and all that had passed between them. That Ruth 
had influence was clear ; and she had also a sincere desire to 
exercise this influence rightly. Alice’s increased interest in the 
school and the poor people were hopeful symptoms ; but no ex- 
ternal improvement could really avail for her happiness as long 
as her position with regard to Lady Catharine remained as it 
then was. Here lay the great difficulty both for Alice’s conduct 
and Ruth’s advice. Mrs Cliflbrd would have been the fit person 
to apply to when Ruth wished to know how to deal with Alice; 
but Ruth was involved in a harassing maze of petty perplexities. 
She could not pretend to talk openly to her mother about Alice, 
and yet be a party to deceptions. But neither could she own 
her share in them, because this would involve a mention of 
Florence and Justine ; and perhaps, as Alice had said, do harm. 
Ruth had a strong mind, which could cope with serious evils ; 
she had moral courage sufficient to have enabled her to make 
really great efforts, and she had a clear judgment in general ; 
but the present seemed a case distinct from all others. There 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


407 


was a consciousness of being wrong, without any exact percep- 
tion of where the wrong lay ; a wish to free herself from Alice, 
yet a strong desire to lead her right ; a dislike to bei^^ mixed 
up in any affair with Florence and Justine, yet a dread that if 
Alice were to continue the acquaintance whilst she withdrew 
from it, the result might do great mischief. Above all, a hatred 
of deception and concealment, yet the tie of a hasty promise, 
given, she scarcely knew why or for what. It was the most 
worrying, provoking medley of small difficulties which Ruth had 
ever met with. 

Still, if she refally could guide Alice at all, it should be, she de- 
termined, in the path of sincerity: the mystery about Justine must 
either be cleared up, or they must be released from their promise. 
This step was undoubtedly one of the first to be taken, and 
Ruth became quite anxious either to meet Florence, or to make 
Alice agree to write to her ; or, in short, do something to put 
an end to the necessity for concealment. 

Alice’s disposition was changeable as the winds. Before Lady 
Catharine received Mrs Carter’s answer to her letter, she had 
taken, what is called, a good turn — at least, in some respects. 
The poor people’s clothes and some books of accounts were 
sent from the Parsonage, and she busied herself one whole 
morning in arranging what was to be done with them ; and 
even consulted Lady Catharine as to how she should manage to 
receive the pence for the shoe club, and what day and hour it 
would be well to fix for it. Lady Catharine was thankful for 
the improvement, but it was only external. As regarded her- 
self — her own thoughts, or wishes, or feelings — Alice was as 
little inclined to be communicative as ever. 

^ Mrs Carter’s letter, therefore, was very welcome when it 
arrived at the usual time, the breakfast hour ; for Lady Catha- 
rine flattered herself, that she was now to find an easy way out 
of her difficulties. But, like many other ‘ short cuts ’ in life, 
the plan of providing Alice with a friend only led further away 
from the main object. Mrs Carter professed herself much per- 
plexed what answer to give to Lady Catharine’s request. In 
the multiplicity of her engagements, she could not always bear 
in mind the friendships which her young people formed with 
each other. She was not at all aware that either Fanny Wilson 
or Tessie O’Neile were particularly intimate with Alice. In- 
deed, to the best of her recollection, the only person whom 
Alice had lately expressed much regard for, was Florence Tre- 


4o8 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


velyan ; but of this she could not be certain. She would not, 
however, neglect the opportunity of giving Lady Catharine a 
warning: upon the subject, which she was sure would not be 
taken amiss. And this warning made Lady Catharine knit 
her brows and look doubly stern, as she pushed aside her 
plate, and removed her coffee cup, and seemed determined to 
give it her full attention ; whilst Alice sat opposite, wondering 
what Mrs Carter, whose handwriting she recognised, could pos- 
sibly have to write about. 

The passage which so engrossed Lady Catharine was the 
following : ‘ I cannot help fearing lest, by any means, Alice’s 
intimacy with Florence should lead to the renewal of an ac- 
quaintance with another young person, whose name you may 
perhaps recollect. Mademoiselle Le Vergnier. She was at one 
time admitted frequently as a guest at my house. I then saw 
reason to distrust her principles, and for the sake of my pupils 
I was compelled to forbid her ever associating with them again. 
Still I had an interest in her ; she was very young, and her 
education had been much neglected. All her. prospects de- 
pended upon being able to support herself as a governess ; and 
as she had been specially recommended to my care, I could 
not at once, for what might be considered a trifling offence, 
give her up. I will not trouble you with mentioning the means 
I took to watch over and help her ; it will be sufficent to say 
that I never lost sight of her, and from time to time gave her 
advice as to her conduct, besides other assistance. I had 
reason to hope that my efforts would not be thrown away, and 
I looked forward to procuring some situation for her where she 
might be independent and respected. But some circurhstances 
which have lately come to my knowledge have given me a very 
unfavourable impression regarding her. I fear the careless 
education which she received as a child is working its fatal 
consequences, now that she is a woman. I could not possibly 
recommend her as a governess, and it would grieve me sincerely 
to know that any of my pupils were intimate with her. 

‘ You will not, I hope, consider me prejudiced or unjust 
because I do not enter into particulars. I do not feel myself 
at liberty to give more than a general warning ; but when I 
heard that Florence Trevelyan had been allowed to renew the 
• acquaintance, notwithstanding a caution, similar to this, sent 
both to her mother and herself, I could not help feeling anxious 
respecting Alice. Mademoiselle Le Vergnier has lately been resi- 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


409 


dent in the neighbourhood of Cromer Court. I am not sure 
where she now is. With regard to Florence, I have not a bad 
opinion of her. I even consider that, under good influence, she 
might do well ; but she is extremely weak and very vain, and 
one cannot tell what the effect of Justine’s acquaintan,ce may 
be. It is a real grief to me that her parents have allowed an 
intimacy to grow up again.’ 

A hasty person would at once have addressed Alice upon 
the subject of this letter, but Lady Catharine was seldom or 
never hasty. She finished breakfast with great deliberation, 
gave her orders for the day, and then went into the garden — 
her usual place for meditation. Alice hoped that nothing was 
wrong, and settled herself to her occupations in the morning- 
room. There was nothing very wrong yet, at least in the way 
of suspicion. Lady Catharine’s disposition was guileless ; she 
did not imagine that Alice would deceive her, and therefore 
took it for granted that Mrs Carter was mistaken when she 
supposed that Florence and Alice were friends. All that vexed 
her was to be obliged in any way to check the acquaintance 
with Florence, who, as the daughter of persons once well known 
to her, had, she conceived, a claim upon her for kindness. 
The question which she could not at once decide was, whether 
she should mention to Alice what Mrs Carter had said. 

The natural thing to be done in a case of difficulty is to ask 
another’s opinion ; but this was exactly what Lady Catharine 
never would do. She was the lady paramount in her own house- 
hold and upon her own large estate ; and though humble in her 
opinion of herself, as all true Christians must be, she nevertheless 
had an unobtrusive but firm reliance upon her own judgment, 
which made it seem unnecessary to ask advice. Besides, Mrs 
Clifford was the only person whom she could well consult, and 
Mrs Clifford, with all her excellences— and Lady Catharine 
thought herself fully alive to them — did not hold that position 
in her estimation which would fit her to be her counsellor. 
She was too gentle — too quiet ; her management was not 
systematic ; or, at any rate, it did not appear to be so. Lady 
Catharine, in her secret heart, believed that it was by a sort of 
happy accident — if such a term may be allowed — that Ruth 
and Madeline had grown up to be superior to other girls of 
their age. It was the unseen influence of religious principle, 
she supposed, acting by itself upon dispositions naturally good, 
and kept aloof from temptation. She could not understand a 


410 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


family in which the authority of the mother and the mistress 
was not prominently put forward. Mrs Clifford, on her side, 
respected Lady Catharine extremely, but she was rather afraid 
of her. Lady Catharine’s strong will went straight forward, like 
the course of a railroad, cutting down hills of difficulty, and 
filling up valleys of perplexity, and gaining its end surely and 
rapidly ; but never perceiving that it was all the time intruding 
upon private feeling, or invading some quiet little nook of home 
affections. Mrs Clifford felt this constantly, and she would 
have been just as unwilling to give advice to Lady Catharine 
as Lady Catharine would be to ask it. Lady Catharine came 
to her own decision at length ; she would be silent for the pre- 
sent. Mrs Carter was evidently mistaken in thinking that 
Alice cared for Florence, and it might be more charitable to 
Justine not to say anything about her until there was a neces- 
sity. In the meantime she could be on the watch herself, and 
check any great friendship if it appeared likely to spring up. 
For the sake of her old friends, it would not do to discourage 
the acquaintance entirely ; and, indeed, Mrs Carter’s observa- 
tions did not seem to render it necessary. 

When Lady Catharine went to Alice’s room, she referred 
again to her school friends, and proposed, if she liked it, to in- 
vite either Fanny Wilson or Jessie O’Neile to the Manor. 
Alice’s answer was discouraging. She was very much obliged ; 
but she did not care. If Lady Catharine liked. 

‘ If I like, my dear ; that is not at all the point : it is what 
you like.’ 

‘ Thank you, ma’am ; ’ but Alice would not appear glad. 

A slight misgiving crossed Lady Catharine’s mind. ‘ You 
are very strange, my dear,’ she said. ‘ You don’t seem half as 
much pleased as you were the other day, when you told me you 
had met Miss Trevelyan at Rediord.’ 

‘Don’t I, ma’am?’ said Alice, blushing, but going on with 
her occupation. 

‘ No, my denr, you don’t. Do you really not care to have 
your friends to see you ? ’ 

‘ I shall like it by and by,’ said Alice, not knowing how to 
avoid a direct answer. 

‘ Well ! by and by ; perhaps you are right ; you are 
scarcely settled in your ways of going on yet. I am glad you 
are diligent at that work ; you will have finished the seams to- 
day.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


4ir 


‘Yes, I hope so,* said Alice, rejoiced to have escaped the 
dangerous topic. 

‘ Neatly done, too,’ said Lady Catharine, examining it. ‘ I 
must go now ; I have letters to write. Good-bye, my love, till 
luncheon-time ; ’ and Lady Catharine went away, pleased at 
being freed for a time, without any sacrifice of duty, from the 
necessity of entertaining a strange young lady. She came 
back, however ; the misgiving in her mind was not entirely 
gone. ‘ You have seen but little of Miss Trevelyan, my dear 
Alice. I suppose she has never mentioned to you anything 
about a friend of hers, a Mademoiselle Le Vergnier.?’ 

‘ I know Justine myself,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yes, yes, I am aware of that ; but I thought Miss Trevelyan 
knew her too.’ 

‘ When we were at Mrs Carter’s, a long time ago,’ said 
Alice. 

‘ Oh !’ Lady Catharine was quite satisfied, and fancied she 
had managed cleverly to discover that Alice knew nothing of 
Florence or Justine, or anything concerning them. 

Alice was quite dissatisfied. Those few observations had 
opened to her, in a great measure, the purport of Mrs Carter’s 
letter. 


CHAPTER XXXVIir. 


UTH went to the Manor that afternoon. She found Lady 



IV Catharine in Alice’s apartment, helping her to arrange 
some books which had just come from London. Alice was in 
good humour, and Lady Catharine pleased with her pleasure. 
This was so much in Ruth’s favour, for Alice was more likely 
to take a right view of things when she was contented than 
when she was perverse. 

‘ Now, Ruth,’ said Lady Catharine, in her kindest voice, ‘we 
must have your assistance. Here are some histories ; they had 
better go before the Waverley Novels.’ 

‘The Waverley Novels!’ and Ruth laid her hand upon 
them eagerly. ‘ O Alice ! how delightful I are they all your 
own ? ’ 

‘ All her own,’ replied Lady Catharine, smiling at Ruth’s for- 
getfulness of the observation she had addressed to her. ‘ But/ 


412 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 




she added, ‘ Alice assures me they shall not be her only read- 
ing. The histories are to be studied carefully; and the Waverley 
Nov^els are to be the recreation. For myself, I never read 
novels at all,^ continued Lady Catharine, in a lower tone. ‘ I 
don’t see the interest in them : however, with young people, I 
suppose it is different. There were not many good novels when 
I was young.’ 

Ruth and Alice were now looking over the books together ; 
pointing out to each other which they had read, and recalling 
the particular passages^and characters they liked. 

When, however. Lady Catharine left them, which she did 
very soon, Ruth threw aside her volume, and exclaimed — 

‘ How I have wished to see you, Alice, the last three days.’ 

‘ And so have I been wishing to see you,’ replied Alice. ‘ I 
should have managed it the day before yesterday, only it rained ; 
and yesterday Lady Catharine took me out in her carriage.’ 

‘ I have been very uncomfortable since I saw you last,’ con- 
tinued Ruth. 

‘ About that stupid note ? It is stupid, is it not Florence 
really must not write in such a veiy affectionate way — and hint- 
ing about Justine too ! — so extremely imprudent ! ’ 

‘ And what is more,’ continued Ruth, ‘ Florence must not 
have anything to do with Justine ; or, if she has, she must not 
mix you up with it.’ 

‘ As to that,’ replied Alice, ‘ I know no harm of Justine ; 
Florence tells me she is very well disposed.’ 

‘ And, besides, from what you have said,’ observed Ruth, ‘ I 
am sure your acquaintance with Florence is kept up in some 
way without Lady Catharine’s knowledge.’ 

‘ Is Lady Catharine always to interfere with me ?’ inquired 
Alice, proudly. ‘ Am I never to have a friend of my own 
choosing ? ’ 

‘ Whilst you are living with Lady Catharine, you are bound 
to follow her wishes,’ said Ruth ; ‘ and to be open with her.’ 

‘ So I would be ; but I am afraid of her.’ 

‘ That may be a difficulty,’ replied Ruth ; ‘ but it does not 
alter the duty.’ 

‘ And what would you have me to do, then ? ’ inquired Alice, 
struck with Ruth’s determined tone. 

‘ Write to Florence, and say that you must tell Lady Catha- 
rine how intimate you are.’ 

‘ Oh ! but you mistake entirely : it is my own fault Lady 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


413 


. Catharine’s not understanding that she is my friend. Florence 
, has nothing to do with it ; and really the afiair is scarcely worth 

> speaking of, only it perplexes one just now. I hope you will 
try and understand, Ruth,’ continued Alice, after a moment’s 

; pause. ‘ You will not think I mean to be insincere ; but the 
fact is. Lady Catharine worries me immensely, and I knew she 
■. would not like Florence — at least, I thought she would not ; 
and when she asked who were my friends at school, I did not 
mention her particularly ; and so Lady Catharine has taken up 
a fancy that I do not care about her — that Fanny Wilson and 
Jessie O’Neile were my favourites ; and, moreover — I don’t much 
like telling you, because you take matters so seriously, but I 
suppose I had better — one day there came a letter from Flor- 
ence — a formal one, just such as she writes when she is stupid 
— and I did not mind showing that ; but there was a postscript, 
much warmer, calling me “ darling,” and all that sort of thing, 
and this I was afraid to show ; so I gave Lady Catharine the 
letter, and kept the postscript, and ever since she has taken it 
into her head, I am sure, that Florence always writes to me in 
that dull way, and she would not at all comprehend the style of 
these last notes.’ 

Ruth was silent when Alice had finished this confession, which 
was made in a hurried voice, and with downcast eyes. Alice 
waited patiently for an answer. When it came, it was very 
short, and not at all consolatory. 

‘ Alice, Mrs Carter always said your great fault was defi- 
y ciency in moral courage.’ 

> ‘ Yes, I know it — I know it perfectly,’ answered Alice ; ‘ but 
; that will not help me now.’j 

' ‘ It ought to help you,’ said Ruth, ‘ because you ought to 

strive against it.’ 

■' ‘ And I mean to do so ; I trust and think that I shall. Only 

; - let me get rid of this one difficulty.’ 

\ ‘ You create the difficulties for yourself, Alice,’ answered 

] Ruth ; ^ and unless you have moral courage now, neither I nor 
^ any one else can be of use to you. You must tell Lady Catha- 
^ line what you have done.’ 

; ‘ I tell her ! ’ and Alice -almost screamed with horror. 

‘ Yes, it is the only way,’ said Ruth, unrelentingly. 

Alice turned very pale ; then, after a moment’s thought, she 
[ said — 

" ‘No, Ruth, it is not the only way ; — in fact, I cannot do it ; 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


4U 

— for, of course, if I tell one thing, I must tell all. It would 
be merely pretence to keep back anything ; and what is to be 
done then about Justine? — ^we have both promised to be secret 
there.’ 

Ruth was silent, for she was perplexed. 

‘ Then write to Florence,’ she said, after a little thought ; 

‘ tell her that you would rather not keep up a correspondence 
with her, as there are subjects which cannot be mentioned to 
Lady Catharine, and so break off the acquaintance — for the 
present, at least ; and yo*u may beg her to release us from our 
promise at the same time. In fact, as far as I am concerned, 
I am scarcely bound by it — for I only made it for a time.’ 

‘ And how is this precious letter to be sent when it is written?’ 

^ As all other letters are, I suppose,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ And if Lady Catharine asks to see it ?’ 

Ruth was again obliged to consider. 

‘ You must tell the truth,’ she replied : * say that you have 
written something private to Florence. Lady Catharine is much 
too honourable to insist upon seeing it, however annoyed she 
may be ; and depend upon it, Alice,’ continued Ruth, earnestly, 

‘ if you will do this, y'-ou will go further in gaining Lady Catha- 
rine’s esteem, and making your life happy, than you can possibly 
imagine.’ 

Alice leaned her head upon her hand, and thought ; and 
Ruth busied herself with the books, that no fault might be laid 
upon them when Lady Catharine returned. Alice looked up at 
last. 

‘ Ruth,’ she said, ‘ if Lady Catharine were any one else, I 
could do it ; but you don’t know her. I can’t tell you what it 
is like when she is offended. She never scolds, but it is some- 
thing awful — a thunder-cloud is nothing to it ; — so black and 
quiet, only you are sure there must be a burst before long. Ana 
then her voice goes deep down with a laimble, and she has a 
fashion of smoothing her mittens ; when she begins that, I know 
it is all over with me.’ 

Alice paused ; the small amount of courage which she pos- 
sessed before she commenced her description had now com- 
pletely melted away. 

*■ You must think of another plan,’ she continued ; ‘ I can’t 
stand thundering looks.’ 

‘ Or seeing Lady Catharine smooth her mittens,’ said Ruth, 
ironically. ‘ O Alice !’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


415 

‘ It is very well for you to say “ O Alice !” but you will not 
be put in the way of it/ 

‘ What I say is right, nevertheless,^ persisted Ruth. 

‘Well ! yes, perhaps it is.^ 

‘ Then it must be done.^ 

Alice was silent. 

‘ Think, Alice,’ continued Ruth ; ‘ now you are to be con- 
firmed, you ought to be so very particular.’ 

‘ Confirmed !’ exclaimed Alice. ‘ I wish’ she stopped. 

‘You wish what?’ asked Ruth. 

‘ I had better keep my wishes to myself,’ replied Alice ; ‘ I 
shall only frighten you. By the by, Ruth, are we to have 
regular examination days now? Your papa said something 
about it.’ 

‘ Yes : I thought you understood it ; twice a week, to begin 
to-morrow.’ 

Alice looked anything but pleased, and Ruth resolutely re- 
turned to the former subject. 

‘ You see, Alice,’ she said, ‘ this is a time of all others when 
you should be careful. You would not bear to promise to be 
good, and all the time to be deceiving Lady Catharine. I do 
hope you will take my advice.’ 

‘ I mean to do so always, after this time,’ said Alice. 

‘ But that will not do ; now is the time ; really it is right.’ 

Alice put on a mysterious expression of face, and said she 
could not be sure of that. 

‘ But I am, quite,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ Yes; but you don’t know. Suppose, by telling Lady Catha- 
rine, or by making her suspicious — which she would be horribly 
— if she knew I wrote private things to Florence — great mis- 
chief was to follow for another person.’ 

‘ I don’t understand — I can’t tell what you are talking about,’ 
replied Ruth. ‘ I only see the straightforward right of the 
case.’ 

‘ Ah ! yes ; but if I were to explain — there are some things, 
Ruth, which you are not up to.’ 

‘ A great many, I hope,’ said Ruth, proudly, ‘ if you are talk- 
ing of Florence and Justine.’ 

‘ That is so like you, Ruth ; setting them both down as very 
bad now, because they were silly years ago. But there is 
nothing silly in this business ; it is very important, especially 
to Justine. I wish I could tell you. However, vou will knov» 


4i6 


LAiXETON PARSONAGE. 


soon enough if things turn out as we wish. Florence really is 
amazingly good-natured to take such an interest in Justine.’ 

Ruth could not help being curious. Her mind wandered 
away from the real subject under discussion, whilst trying to 
give a form to the conjectures which crossed her mind. 

‘ I know — I have guessed,’ she presently exclaimed. ‘ Mamma 
heard the other day that Mrs De Lacy was looking out for a 
governess for little Agnes. Florence wishes Justine to have 
the situation ; that is it. I don’t ask you to tell, but I am 
sure it is. I suppose she would not like the old stories to be 
brought up against her. But it seems to me absurd to make a 
mystery of things so long past, and Mrs De Lacy must find out 
somehow that Mrs Carter knows Justine.’ 

‘ Mrs De Lacy is going abroad almost immediately,’ said 
Alice. 

Ruth smiled at this indirect confiiTnation of her suspicion. 

‘ And Justine is to go with her ? ’ she said. 

^ And perhaps Florence,’ added Alice; then recollecting her- 
self, she exclaimed : ‘How stupid in me ! I did not mean in 
the least to tell.’ 

‘ Only you have done so. You never could keep a secret.’ 

Alice appeared disconcerted for the instant, but there was 
relief in the thought that Ruth now knew something of the true 
state of the case. 

‘ Still, I cannot comprehend it,’ continued Ruth. ‘ Mrs Carter 
is a very kind, charitable person. She would not say anything 
against Justine if she could help it.’ 

‘ Mrs Carter is prejudiced,’ replied Alice. 

‘ But how prejudiced ? Has she made up her mind that 
because Justine was not perfectly good years ago, therefore she 
is to be wicked all the days of her life ? ’ 

‘ Mrs Carter says unjust things about her, and believes a 
great many false stories,’ said Alice. 

‘ Oh ! ’ and Ruth’s face brightened with intelligence, ‘ I com- 
prehend better now ; they are new stories, which Florence is 
afraid of.’ 

‘ New, but not true,’ said Alice. ‘ Florence told me all about 
it. Justine’s last situation was a very strict one, and she was 
never allowed to go out or see her friends ; and Mrs Carter, and 
persons who don’t like her, declare that she used to do so by 
stealth, but it was not at all the case. Justine explained it to 
Florence very satisfactorily, and since then Florence has taken 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


417 


her part. As for Mrs Carter/ she is quite Justine’s enemy, and 
I suspect she has even written something about her to Lady 
Catharine.’ Alice then related what had passed in the morning. 
‘ Florence told me that even Mary Vernon has interfered about 
her,’ she added, ‘ saying ill-natured things.’ 

* Mrs Carter and Mary Vernon ! ’ exclaimed Ruth ; ‘ I 

would believe what they said against all the Florence Trevel- 
yans in the world. I shall write to Mary and ask her what the 
truth is.’ 

< No, no; indeed, Ruth, you must not. Remember, we have 
promised to be quiet ; and, in fact, I ought not to have told 
you this, only you guessed. In fairness to me you must not 
make a fuss.’ 

‘ But it is so wrong in Florence,’ said Ruth, ‘ setting up her 
judgment ! And if Justine is really not a good person, it will 
be very sad for her to be governess to that child. I wonder 
why you don’t see that.’ 

‘ Florence declares she is good,’ persisted Alice. 

* But how can Florence know better than such persons as 
Mrs Carter and Mary Vernon ? Indeed, she is quite wrong.’ 

‘ Then write and tell her so,’ said Alice, eagerly. 

< I ! — I write ?’ 

‘ Yes, you have influence ; she respects you immensely. Tell 
her how you came to know about the affair, and advise her to 
have nothing to do with it. She will listen to you.’ 

‘ No,’ exclaimed Ruth, ‘ Florence will not do that ; she will 
listen to nothing but her own wishes.’ 

‘ Ruth,’ said Alice, ‘ I know Florence much better than you 
do ; she will listen to you.’ 

Ruth became very thoughtful. 

* I cannot mix myself up with the affair,’ she said. 

^ But you are mixed up with it ; remember your promise.’ 

‘ It was given only for a short time ; 1 shall let Florence 
know the next time we meet that I consider myself released 
from it ; and then the matter must take its own course. If I 
am asked anything about Justine, I shall tell what I know.’ 

Alice grew uneasy, and said it was a very perplexing 
business. 

‘ I do not see that,’ replied Ruth ; ‘ we have but one thing to 
do — to get out of it.’ 

‘ Much easier said than done — at least for me,’ observed 
Alice ; ‘ and, moreover, I cannot see that it is best. 

2 D 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


418 

* It is the simplest, most straightforward course,^ replied 
Ruth. 

^Well, it may be,’ answered Alice, doubtfully. ‘You are 
much better and wiser than I am, Ruth ; but really, in this 
case, I do think you are mistaken. Just consider ; if it is so 
very bad for Justine to be governess to Agnes when she is not 
fit for the situation, surely it would be proper to warn Florence 
against encouraging her. You may do immense good if you 
will only write, and you may tell Florence not to send me any 
more affectionate letters, which I cannot show to Lady Catha- 
rine, and so prevent me from getting into disgrace.’ 

Alice had, by this time, completely deceived herself. She 
really did think that she was giving a disinterested opinion 
when she was urging Ruth to do that which would best suit 
her own convenience. Ruth again brought forAvard, though 
rather feebly, her opinion of the uselessness of interference, and 
Alice strongly combated it, and reiterated again and again her 
conviction that the profound respect which Florence entertained 
for Ruth would lead her to be entirely guided by her. 

‘ If I could think so,’ said Ruth, hesitating. 

‘ But you may be quite sure of it ; you may be of use to 
Florence, and possibly to Justine too. Both of them look up to 
you.’ 

Ruth smiled at the notion of a person like Justine looking up 
to her ; but the idea had its effect. 

‘And,’ continued Alice, ‘your writing will stop Florence 
from sending those foolish affectionate notes just as much as 
mine ; but nothing which I could say would prevent her from 
encouraging Justine, don’t you see 1 ’ 

Alice had mixed up the two questions adroitly, though with- 
out any deliberate intention, and Ruth’s usually clear judgment 
was at fault. She lost sight of her first wish of inducing Alice 
to be open with Lady Catharine, and began to imagine that 
the important point was to persuade Florence that she was 
doing wrong in taking Justine’s part. 

‘ I will think about it,’ she said in reply to Alice’s plead- 
ing. 

‘ If you think, you will do it,’ was the answer : one which 
made Ruth shrink with a sudden misgiving, as to whether she 
was deciding aright, Alice used the expression without any 
double meaning ; it was merely her way of saying that she was 
certain Ruth would agree. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


419 

‘ I know you will, because it is best, and kindest," she added. 
‘ You are more reasonable than Madeline." 

‘ Madeline knows nothing ! " exclaimed Ruth. 

‘ No ; only I meant to have told you — the other day — I had 
written a note to Florence — much such a one as you will send 
in one respect, begging her not to call me “darling, and 
dearest ; "" and I asked Madeline to put it in the post for me 
and she refused." 

‘ You never told me that before," said Ruth, reproachfully. 

‘ Because I did not think of it. I was angry with Madeline 
at the time, but I forgot it afterwards." 

‘ And Madeline refused .? " repeated Ruth, in a tone of un- 
easiness. 

Alice answered with some surprise : — 

‘ Yes, she refused : but why should you be so grave about 
it.?" 

‘ Madeline thought it wrong, I suppose," continued Ruth. 

‘ I don't know about wrong exactly ; that is such a hard 
word, but not quite right. “ She had rather not,"" she said ; 
and when Madeline talks about rather not, I can never ask her 
a second time." 

‘ Good-bye, Alice," said Ruth, abruptly ; and fastening the 
strings of her bonnet in haste. 

‘ Good-bye, Ruth, dear ; remember, I depend upon you, and 
you must write soon, or it will be no good." 

Ruth’s letter to Florence was written that same afternoon. 
Any one in the least acquainted with human nature, especially 
with a character like Ruth's, might have prophesied that it 
would be. 

Ruth piqued herself upon her good judgment ; but a good 
judgment, in questions of right and wrong, is not that which 
can calculate consequences cleverly, but that which perceives 
the duty of the case and determines at once to perform it. Its 
main ingredient is more than a wish not to do wrong ; it is an 
earnest desire to do right. Ruth had two duties incumbent 
upon her ; one to her mother not to engage in a correspond- 
ence which she might disapprove ; the other to Alice, not in 
any way to encourage her in deceiving Lady Catharine. These 
two duties Ruth set aside, and took up a third ; the endeavour 
to make Florence Trevelyan give up Justine, 

Alice's allusion to Madeline was the only thing which caused 
her to question the propriety of what she was doing. Ruth was 


420 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


nearly certain, though she would scarcely allow it to herself, that 
Madeline would not take the same view of the case that she did. 
But Madeline was young, even for her age ; and singularly quick 
too in settling all doubtful questions. Ruth was accustomed 
to consider her sister’s opinions as inferior to her own when they 
differed in argument. She herself was very clever ; her per- 
ception was keen, and she seemed able to see both sides of the 
question at once. Whichever view she took, appeared, for the 
time, the right one ; yet, after long reasoning, Madeline would 
often surprise her by ending with — ‘ It seems right, Ruth, 
because you say it ; but, somehow, I cannot feel that it is so ; ' 
and then she would return to the very point from which they 
had started, and propound some simple question of duty, 
which put all Ruth’s cleverness to flight. Experience, in these 
cases, often showed Ruth that Madeline was right, but she 
attributed the fact to accident. 

The doubt, in the present instance, as to what Madeline 
would do in a similar case, made Ruth uncomfortable, but it 
did not alter her decision. As Alice had prophesied, she 
thought ; and then she resolved to act. 

The letter, when written, was read over with considerable 
satisfaction, for it was well expressed, simple, and forcible. 
Ruth made many apologies for intruding her opinion, and 
trusted that Florence would not be vexed at her having dis- 
covered the purport of Justine’s visit ; and then she gave the 
reasons which made her think that it would not be right to 
conceal Justine’s acquaintance with Mrs Carter, speaking 
strongly of the mischief which might ensue if Justine were not 
a proper person to take charge of Agnes. As regarded herself, 
she stated that she could not consider her promise as any 
longer binding, for it was made before she knew the facts of 
the case ; and when it was given she had said it could only 
be for a time. In conclusion, she mentioned that Alice did 
not like to receive notes which could not be shown to Lady 
Catharine, and therefore begged Florence not to write to her 
about Justine, and to use less affectionate expressions. 

This last sentence did not imply all that Ruth intended when 
she talked to Alice. It left the door open for the intimacy 
with Florence still to continue in a covert way, but she did not 
exactly know what else to say without giving offence, and thought 
that it would do for the present. Florence was not going to live 
in the neighbourhood, so perhaps there was no great mischief 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


421 


in letting things take their chance for a few weeks. In fact, she 
and Alice were in a manner one in this business, and if they 
were cut off from Florence entirely, it would of course be im- 
possible to be of any use to her. So the letter was sent, and 
Ruth looked forward with much interest to the answer. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 



LICE was more competent to perform her duties at the 


school after receiving Ruth’s advice and hints. She 
was also happier after having acknowledged her deception, and 
determined to have no more letters which she was afraid to 
show. She began to fancy that she really was, as the expres- 
sion is, turning over a new leaf. But Alice was mistaken. We 
cannot slur over a duty, and go on well without performing it. 
If there is any act which we ought to do and which we will not 
do, it is in vain to flatter ourselves that we are sincere in our 
amendment. 

Alice’s concealment from Lady Catharine of her friendship 
with Florence Trevelyan was like an unpaid debt. Her accounts 
might be settled regularly for the future, but until the old claim 
was discharged, she could not be free and honourable. There 
were times when Alice felt this — when a pang shot through her 
heart — a pang which all must sometimes feel who endeavour to 
blind themselves by an outward change of conduct without 
seeking the conversion of the heart. These times were when- 
ever any allusion was made to the confirmation. 

Alice could not bring herself to bear the prospect of it. As 
it approached nearer, it became more serious — it may, indeed, 
be said, more awful ; for upon confirmation must immediately 
follow that holiest of Christian privileges, which the most indif- 
ferent shrink from approaching unprepared. 

This was a subject rarely alluded to by Lady Catharine, who 
considered that if Alice was fit for confirmation, she must be fit 
to be admitted to the Holy Communion, and trusted much to 
her late improvement ; not doubting, also, that Alice’s serious 
impressions would be deepened by Mr Clifford’s instruction and 
advice. 

Perhaps, had Lady Catharine remarked the manner in which 


422 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


Mrs Clifford would occasionally allude, in conversation with 
her children, to the solemn time that was approaching, she 
might have received a useful hint as to her treatment of Alice. 
Lady Catharine had a great dislike to enthusiastic expressions, 
and found it difficult to say what she felt upon religious sub- 
jects ; she therefore took refuge in silence. Mrs Clifford’s taste 
was very like Lady Catharine’s ; but when, in answer to Made- 
line’s simple observation, ‘ Mamma, I shall not feel a child any 
longer when I am confirmed,’ her mother answered in a man- 
ner so serious that it could not be misunderstood, ‘ And you 
will not be a child, my love,’ both Madeline and Ruth knew at 
once what it was to which reference was made. Volumes of 
instruction would not have made more impression upon them 
than the belief which their mother indirectly but constantly 
showed, that they were approaching a period when a blessing, 
which human language cannot describe, was to be conferred 
upon them. 

Long before, indeed, they could have told in words the nature 
of the Holy Sacrament to which they were to be admitted ; but 
words too often are a hindrance rather than an assistance to our 
feelings, and preparation for a first Communion is something 
widely different from the weekly repetition of the explanation of 
the subject given in the Church Catechism. 

So Madeline felt as she was spending some time alone, a few 
days after Ruth had sent her letter to Florence. She was 
trying to examine her own heart ; tiying to discover her faults ; 
trying to realise her true condition upon earth, and the state of 
her preparation for heaven. A little book upon self-examina- 
tion lay open before her. It contained but few questions; and 
those, it would have seemed, soon answered. But each ques- 
tion suggested to Madeline’s true and most conscientious mind 
subject for reflection and deep regret. The life which to others 
appeared unspotted, was, when viewed in the presence of God, 
stained with innumerable sins. 

But Madeline would not shrink from the sight. One by 
one, the faults of which she was conscious from former self- 
examination were enumerated and confessed, with a fervent 
prayer for forgiveness and help ; and then, the particular point 
upon which she had fixed for that day’s inquiry was dwelt upon 
more minutely. It was vanity — a fault which Madeline saw 
in herself, although those who knew her best would have hesi- 
tated to acknowledge that she had it. She was vain of her 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


423 


personal appearance, and she began her self-imposed task by 
examining in what details this defect showed itself. Too much 
time, she knew, w’as spent in dressing : that was one sign ; she 
was too particular in choosing her dresses ; too anxious to hear 
remarks made upon herself and Ruth, which indirectly paid 
them compliments ; she always observed carefully what other 
persons wore, and how it was put on; she was not pleased 
when others were called pretty : that approached to envy; but 
the groundwork was vanity. These things were indeed in 
themselves slight; but they were indications of a temper of 
mind to be guarded against, and Madeline had learned to lock, 
not at her outward conduct only, but at her heart. When the 
offence was thus thoroughly perceived and acknowledged, the 
next step of importance was to see it in its tioie light — in its 
real deformity; to view it as it must be viewed by God. Made- 
line was vain of her appearance and fond of admiration in 
general; yet, in a few years (so she had been taught always to 
carry on her thoughts to the end of life) her body must be laid 
in the grave, an object of dread to those who most loved her, 
with the woiTn spread under her, and the worm covering her. 
Where w*ould then be room for vanity ? 

She thought once more : — there was a world, sinless and 
glorious, where saints cast their crowns of glory at the foot of 
the throne of God, and angels cover their faces with their wings 
in awful adoration of his majesty. Madeline tried but for a 
few moments to imagine what that world must be. She read 
of it in the Bible, and strove to bring before the eye of her 
mind some faint perception of its awfulness. She imagined 
herself standing amongst the hosts of heaven; she, the igno- 
rant, and weak, and vain — how would they feel towards her ? 
how would they bear her presence ? More than all, how would 
her merciful Saviour regard her .? The holy and undefiled, how 
^ could He look upon the guilty.? Vanity in heaven ! Even to 
connect the ideas seemed a profanation. No, it must be striven 
against — crushed, uprooted. Were it to cost the labour of a life, 
and the watchfulness of every hour, still it must be conquered. 
Amongst the many sacrifices of pleasant siiis to be made at the 
altar of her Saviour, vanity must unhesitatingly be numbered. 

The consciousness of perfect sincerity, blended with the depth 
of Madeline’s repentance and hurnility and with the confidence 
of a child asking help from a father, and the simple, reverent 
love of a sister trusting to an elder brother, she knelt once more 


424 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


in prayer, and felt that prayer was happiness. Then, as she 
rose to return to her usual employments, she dwelt for a few 
moments longer upon the probable temptations which would be 
awaiting her, especially with regard to this one fault. It was 
not often that she left her room without casting one look in her 
glass, as much from habit, perhaps, as from vanity. Now she 
turned away, not because it would be wrong to look, but because 
it was the first little opportunity which presented itself of proving 
her own sincerity; and the trifling act, scarcely to be termed 
self-denial, was the seal of her resolution, and the earnest of 
future victories. 

Ruth spent some time, also, that day, in self-examination; 
but she could not fix her mind like Madeline. The expectation 
of the answer from Florence Trevelyan was constantly recur- 
ring to her; and she found herself repeating the very words in 
which she supposed Florence would express a willingness to be 
entirely guided by her. It was rather surprising that she had 
not heard before; and an uncomfortable feeling arose at the 
thought that, for the first time, she should receive a letter which 
she must ask her mother not to read. Still Ruth began the 
task which she had imposed upon herself without being exactly 
conscious of what is called unreality; or, in other words, with- 
out seeing that she was keeping back from any known duty. 

Ruth’s mode of self-examination differed from Madeline’s. It 
had respect for the future more than the past. When persons 
have long accustomed themselves to strictness of life, this may be 
a desirable mode of striving to improve. It is not well to think 
too much about our own minds, or even about our motives. It is 
better to dwell upon our Saviour’s infinite love, and our own 
privileges as members of His Church ; and then to try and show 
our gratitude by thinking of all we can do to please Him. But, 
at certain times, especially whilst we are as yet unacquainted 
with our own dispositions, and must endeavour to become 
thoroughly humbled as a preparation for the Holy Communion, 
it is absolutely necessary to examine our consciences very 
closely ; to look back upon the past, that we may learn to 
guard against the future. Ruth thought she had done this, 
because on a former occasion she had read through and 
answered a certain set of questions, and now, like Madeline, 
she chose, as her papa had recommended, one particular fault to 
guard against. Madeline, as we have seen, began by a careful 
inquiry as to the little ways in which her defects showed them- 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


425 


selves. Ruth, on the contrary, was satisfied with knowing, 
; partly from having been told, and partly from her own conscience, 
[ th?,t she had certain faults, and there the inquiry rested. Her 
self-examination was vague : what was gone by was in a manner 
; forgotten ; and her character was, in consequence, never truly 
[• viewed. So, in the present instance, self-conceit in general 
\ was, she well knew, what she had to struggle against ; and she 
[■ resolved not to speak of herself, not to put forward her opinion 
I more than could be helped; to remember generally that self-con- 
[ ceit was wrong : and they were very good resolutions ; but if we 

' do not know the instances in which we have before failed we 

I cannot tell what we are bound to guard against. Neither were 
k they resolutions founded upon Christian humility — a heathen 
[ might have made them. There was no remembrance of the 

il lowliness of the Saviour of the world, no consideration of His 

f perfect purity, no real desire to be humble, because so she might 
be like Him. Ruth strove against her faults more because they 
, lowered her in the eyes of her fellow-creatures, than because 
i they were hateful in the eye of God ; and when we look at our 

[ sins only in this way we never have a true view of them. No- 

i thing will give us a real feeling of unworthiness, but the 
consideration of our Saviour’s perfection and yet of His 
unspeakable love ; and nothing will really enable us thoroughly 
' to root out sin except the wish to please Him, as we would wish 

; to please our parents, and the certainty that He will accept the 

very least endeavour, and forgive our fallings away, even until 
: seventy times seven. 

Madeline’s efforts were a pleasure, Ruth’s were a burden ; yet 
( Madeline had a much greater sense of her own helplessness 

f and guilt than her sister. The one thought of her Saviour, the 

other of herself. 

I Madeline returned to the duties of her daily life with the 
feeling of love urging her to watchfulness and energy. Ruth 
returned to hers with the thought that she had done what was 
right, and was, therefore, better prepared for confirmation and 
^ the Holy Communion. 


426 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 


CHAPTER XL. 


RS CLIFFORD was sitting in the school-room the next 



A morning, whilst Ruth and Madeline were pursuing their 
usual studies. Ruth was painfully conscious of her mother’s 
presence, and this feeling was quite new to her. For the last 
year, or even more, any sense of restraint with her mamma had 
been wearing off. Mrs Clifford, notwithstanding her extreme 
gentleness of temper, exercised a full authority over her children 
when they were little. Even a look of disobedience was noticed, 
if not punished. Ruth and Madeline would no more have ven- 
tured to disobey their mother than their father. They could 
not recollect the time when they had been permitted to follow 
their o^vn will, and obedience, in consequence, had become as 
much a habit as the common course of their daily life. 

When this principle was once firmly fixed, half the difficulty 
of education was over. Mrs Clifford could afford to be indulgent, 
because she had no fear of rebellion. She could overlook many 
little faults which it might have fretted her children’s temper to 
remark, — faults shown in play hours — ^when they were off their 
guard, — when they were evidently not aware that she was near, 
because she knew that the great principle of duty was thoroughly 
rooted ; and that, by degrees, if only she could have patience, 
it would work out its good effects in every little detail. 

Ruth and Madeline scarcely knew how much they were under 
control, even when they were children ; they were like well- 
trained horses, taught to attend so immediately to the slightest 
check, that the curb was unnecessary ; and now that they w^ere 
approaching an age when they might be expected to have judg- 
ment and wills of their own, even the restraints of childhood were 
gradually loosened. 

Madeline was once asked, what her mamma did with them 
now they were growing up. The reply was rather abrupt, but 
perfectly true: ‘ She lets us alone.’ In this ‘letting alone’ lay 
the great secret of Mrs Clifford’s influence. The watchfulness 
exercised was never seen ; she guarded them, indeed, from evil 
books, evil companions, evil sights and associations ; but it was 
not by prohibition, but by an unnoticed care, which kept such 
things out of their way. Within certain limits Madeline and 
Ruth were perfectly free. They might walk where they liked, 
and when they liked ; they might choose their own reading ; 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


427 


write to their own friends ; have secrets between themselves, if 
they desired it ; spend their allowance according to their own 
will ; and, when surprise was sometimes expressed that Mrs 
Clifford could trust them with so much liberty, she replied, 
‘ They were kept very strictly when they were quite children ; 
they were never allowed then to disobey, and now they have 
lost the inclination.’ And it was true ; they had lost the in- 
clination, for their mother’s tastes and wishes were their own. 
What inducement, for instance, could there be to peruse books 
privately, when their chief delight was to go to their mother 
with their favourite passages, and find in her interest an increase 
of their own enjoyment. Ruth sometimes came into the room 
absorbed in some poem or tale, and anxious that Madeline 
should read it also ; but, if Mrs Clifford was present, and 
Madeline aw'ay, her natural exclamation was, ‘ Oh ! there is 
mamma, that will do just as well ; ’’ and Mrs Clifford would 
stop and listen, and make her remarks, as if she could entirely 
enter into her child’s enthusiasm ; and if the thought crossed 
her mind, that Ruth might be better employed in some othe^' 
way, the advice was stopped for that moment. Confidence ana 
affection would do more, she knew, in forming a character to 
good than reading history ; and in the course of a few days 
she would perhaps talk to Ruth upon some more serious sub- 
ject, which she was studying herself, and so to lead her to begin 
it ; in order, as Ruth expressed it, to be ^ reading the same book 
as mamma.’ 

A similar principle w'as carried out in other ways. Mrs 
Clifford was anxious to be the friend of her children. As a 
first step towards attaining this object, she allowed them to be 
friends to each other. With a difference of age, there must of 
necessity be a certain difference of feeling. Many little things 
they might be able to say between themselves, which they would 
consider almost too trifling for her. This feeling would lessen 
as they grew older, but at present it was unavoidable, and Mrs 
Clifford gave it full scope. Madeline often said without hesi- 
tation ; ‘ Mamma, Ruth and I have a little secret together ; ’ 
and the remark was to Mrs Clifford a greater assurance of un- 
reserve and simplicity of mind than any confidence given directly 
to herself. The age which Ruth and Madeline »had attained 
w^as just that when restraint was most likely to spring up be- 
tween themselves and those who had authority over them. 
Their judgments and general character were not sufficiently 


428 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


fixed to enable them to be their mother’s companion in her daily 
anxieties ; whilst the spirit of independence was naturally gain- 
ing strength, and their opinions upon all subjects were rapidly 
forming. 

Mrs Clifford was, however, prepared for this stage in her 
children’s life. She was thoroughly endued with the charity 
which ‘ beareth and endureth all things,’ and the faith which 
can trust the best and most cherished wishes of our hearts in 
the hands of God. The difference between Ruth and Madeline 
was as clear to her as to her husband, perhaps even more so ; 
for it was shown in the little instances which came more imme- 
diately under her notice ; and now it was no secret to her that 
something was wrong in Ruth’s mind, yet she waited patiently 
till the time when Ruth’s confidence should be willingly given ; 
and the only change in her manner was an increased tender- 
ness — a winning consideration and care, which Ruth felt, though 
she could not account for it. She began to long for the answer 
from Florence more and more, that she might consider herself 
released from her promise, and speak to her mamma without 
reserve. 

This wash was strongly on her mind when, on the morning 
before mentioned, a servant on horseback rode up to the Par- 
sonage gate. 

‘ From Sheldon, I am sure,’ exclaimed Madeline, going to 
the window. ‘ I know that bright scarlet livery so well. Don’t 
you remember, mamma, we used to wonder whose it could be 
before we knew Mrs De Lacy?’ 

‘ I suppose the picnic is to be fixed,’ said Ruth. ‘ The 
weather is just settled enough, if it will only continue.’ 

Madeline became suddenly grave. ‘ I don’t think I want it 
to be fixed,’ she said. 

Ruth’s head w^as bent over her writing desk, but she looked 
up at this speech. ‘ Maddy, what do you mean ? — why not? ’ 

‘ I don’t know — that is, I can’t say ; but I do not want it.’ 

Ruth went on writing, but her pen moved unsteadily. The 
door opened, and a note was brought in. Ruth did not raise 
her eyes. 

‘ It is from Mrs De Lacy,’ said Mrs Clifford, ‘ and about the 
picnic. It is fixed for Tuesday week ; and, my dear Ruth, here 
are a few lines at the end for you from Miss Trevelyan.’ 

Ruth put out her hand eagerly ; but she had no fear that 
her mamma had read what Florence might have written. 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


429 


* May I see?’ said Madeline, coming to look over her. 

Ruth drew back pettishly. ‘ Let me read it myself, Maddy.’ 
She glanced her eye in an instant over the few lines, written on 
coloured paper, prettily embossed. ‘ There is nothing in it,’ 
she exclaimed, tossing the note across the table to her sister. 

Madeline read it more attentively. ‘ It is a very pressing 
invitation,’ she replied, when she had finished. 

‘ Y 2s, very.’ Ruth said no more, and a few minutes after 
left her writing and went to walk in the garden by herself. 

And this was all the answer to her letter ! An invitation which 
placed her in a greater difficulty than ever. ‘ mus/ conie^ 
Florence wrote, with two or three dashes. Very meaning dashes 
they were to Ruth’s eye, implying much more than a mere wish 
to see her. Ruth was extremely annoyed ; it was such a tantal- 
ising, irritating mode of proceeding. And there would scarcely 
be any use in writing again. Florence was always inclined to 
be obstinate, and if she had determined upon not giving an 
answer till they met, no entreaties would be of any avail. In 
this dilemma Ruth thought of speaking to her mamma. She 
certainly considered herself in a measure freed from the promise 
of secrecy. It had been given but for a short time, and she 
had warned Florence that it must now be at an end. Her 
mamma’s advice would, she knew, be most valuable. Mrs 
Clifford would see at once whether it could be right any longer 
to keep Justine’s secret — and if she could in honour go to her 
for help ; it certainly appeared the right course. But Ruth 
began to reason — perhaps it would make Florence angry if she 
were to do so ; perhaps it would break off their acquaintance ; 
perhaps she should have no opportunity of talking seriously to 
her, and Florence might still go on encouraging Justine — that 
would be very bad for her — or she might still contrive in some 
way that Mrs De Lacy should engage Justine as a governess 
for Agnes — that would be very bad for Agnes. There were a 
great many dangerous possibilities — all to be avoided, if Ruth 
could only see Florence and convince her that she was wrong. 
At last Ruth magnanimously made up her mind to act the 
martyr, and say nothing to her mamma — to sacrifice herself, in 
fact, for her friend, and swerve a little from her own duty in the 
hope of bringing Florence to a sense of hers. 

When Ruth went back to the school-room she found Madeline 
looking very thoughtful, with a book before her, but evidently 
not reading. Once or twice she seemed inclined to speak, but 


430 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


to be afraid. After a time, however, she said, with an effort, 

‘ Ruth, about the picnic — do you mean — that is, do you think 
it would signify if I were not to go.^' 

‘ Signify, Maddy ! What are you talking of?’ 

‘Would there be any hami?’ continued Madeline. 

‘ My dear Maddy, you must bedreaming. No, of course, there 
would not be any harm ; but why possibly should you not go ?’ 

‘ I think I would rather not,’ replied Madeline, whilst the 
colour mounted to her cheeks ; ‘ because it might be harm to me. 
You know, Ruth, I am not good, and ‘I think about things so. 
When I am going anywhere it is always in my mind; and just 
now I would rather not.’ 

Ruth understood in an instant that Madeline alluded to the 
confirmation. ‘ You had better talk to mamma,’ she said. 

‘ Yes, if I can; I shall by and by.’ 

‘ It will be very awkward,’ was Ruth’s next observation, to 
which Madeline said nothing, and both were silent. 

Ruth was almost angry with Madeline for this reserve, though 
she did not at all desire to talk herself upon the subject which 
she knew was occupying her sister’s thoughts. Several times 
lately when the picnic had been referred to, Madeline had hinted 
a disinclination to go : but Ruth fancied it was only because she 
did not like the prospect of encountering a large party. Now 
she saw that it was a much deeper feeling. Ruth did not 
sympathise with her sister. Since the picnic had been first 
proposed her mind had been so occupied that she had scarcely 
remembered it was to take place ; and now there seemed a neces- 
sity for going. If she did not, there might be no opportunity of 
seeing Florence Trevelyan. And then Ruth thought to herself, 
‘ Mamma and papa do not object, and why should I?’ When 
Ruth wished to decide for herself upon any occasion, she was in 
the habit of saying, that now she was growing up it must be 
better to exercise a little judgment of her own. In this instance 
the case happened to be reversed, and it suited her to give up 
her own judgment. But Ruth did not know that her papa and 
mamma saw no objection. In fact, she had reason to imagine 
they might do so; for once or twice lately Mrs Clifford had 
regretted that if the picnic were delayed, it would bring it 
near the time of the confirmation ; and this morning she had not 
shown any pleasure in the thought of their amusement, and in- 
deed had not made any remark about it. These might have been 
suspicious circumstances, if Ruth had fairly considered them. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


431 


CHAPTER XLI. 

T he evening came ; Ruth grew more vexed and unhappy 
about everything. Madeline’s reserve — the stupidity of 
Florence — the picnic, which she did not care for, and yet to 
which she must go. Ruth was not generally cross ; but this 
evening nothing pleased her. It began to rain, and instead of 
taking a walk, as they often did at that time when the day had 
been very warm, she was obliged to find employment within 
doors. Madeline read, and Ruth knew by the binding that the 
book was a volume of sermons. This made her more cross. 
Madeline might just as well, she thought, read sermons in her 
own room ; but the next minute Madeline called to her to point 
out something which she particularly liked, and her sunny 
smile and simple, cheerful voice, soothed Ruth’s ruffled temper. 
She felt that Maddy might do anything she liked — read, or 
talk, or be silent — it did not signify. No one could be annoyed 
with her. Madeline did not read her sermon with a fixed 
attention. She looked often out of the window, as if watching 
for some one. Presently the little green gate opening from the 
garden into the lane was swung to, and Mr Clifford came up 
the gravel walk to the house. Madeline turned again to her 
book ; but when her papa came in she closed it, and began 
talking upon indifferent subjects. Ruth was silent, which was 
rather unusual for her when parish matters were discussed, as 
she generally took a most active part in them. Madeline’s 
nervous manner was apparent to her ; it showed that her heart 
w'as not interested in what was said, and when, as Mr Clifford 
w'as going out of the room, Madeline asked whether she might 
say a few w^ords to him alone, Ruth knew well what the subject 
of the conversation would be. A seed of uneasiness was im- 
planted in Ruth’s breast. She said to herself that Madeline 
was over-scrupulous, but in her heart she felt that she might 
be right. 

The study door closed, and Mr Clifford inquired what Made- 
line had to say. Almost every one’s heart beats quicker at 
such a question. Madeline’s beat very fast ; but nothing was 
to be gained by delay, so she began at once — ‘ Papa, I wanted 
to speak to you — about — I don’t know whether it is right ; but, 
if you please, could you tell me about Mrs De Lacy’s in- 
vitation ?’ 


432 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


Mr Clifford looked half surprised, half amused. He had not 
even heard of it that day. 

‘ The picnic, papa,’ continued Madeline. 

‘ Well, my love, the picnic — what is your difficulty ? Does 
your mamma wish you not to go to it ?’ 

‘ I don’t know ; she has not said so. But, papa, would it 
be wrong to stay away ?’ 

‘ Certainly not, if you wish to do so — at least I should im- 
agine not. But why should you?’ Mr Clifford looked at 
Madeline, and by the expression of her face guessed what she 
would answer. ‘ Would you really rather not go ?’ he continued. 

‘ I think it would be "better — safer for me,’ and Madeline’s 
face brightened at the hope of being understood. ‘ You know, 
papa, I think of things so — they run in my head ; and I should 
enjoy this so much — that is, if we go to St Cuthbert’s Castle, 
and Ruth says that was the place mentioned.’ 

Mr Clifford considered before he replied ; then he said, ‘ Was 
this your own idea, my love ?’ 

‘ Yes, quite my own.’ 

‘ And has it only entered your head to-day.’ 

‘ I have thought about it a little before, but not so much, 
because it did not seem as if the time ever would be fixed.’ 

‘ And what does Ruth think?’ inquired Mr Clifford. 

‘ That is one thing which worries me,’ exclaimed Madeline. 

‘ I am afraid Ruth will not go without me, and I could not 
bear her to be disappointed. What shall I do ? — what can I 
do to be right ? ’ she added, in a veiy anxious tone. 

‘ We will think, my dear child,’ answered her father, and as 
he said this he kissed her with a tenderness of manner which 
fully repaid Madeline for the effort she had made in speaking 
to him. ‘ First of all, we must remember that we may make 
mistakes in matters of conscience by being too scrupulous ; by 
looking upon God, I mean, as a hard taskmaster. I do not 
say that you do so now — indeed, it is most likely I shall 
quite enter into your notions — but religion is meant to hallow 
our innocent amusements, not to shut us out from them ; there- 
fore, it is not because you expect a good deal of pleasure from 
going to St Cuthbert’s that you should be alarmed, and imagine 
it may do you harm.’ 

‘ I should like it very much, indeed,’ said Madeline, laying a 
stress upon the last word. 

‘ Yes, and you jvere intended to like it very much indeed. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


433 • 


Going with pleasant companions to a place you have heard a 
good deal about must be very agreeable. But God will not be 
angry with you for finding it so.^ 

‘Not if I think about it very much said Madeline. 

‘ No, not in general. It is right, we know, to govern our 
thoughts, and not to let them dwell upon any subject at wrong 
times, or so as to make us forget our duties ; but this is a very 
hard lesson — perhaps it may take us many years to learn it — 
and we may be sure that God wll be mercifully patient with us 
whilst we are learning it — supposing, I mean, that we are try- 
ing to do so. He will not expect us to be perfect at once.^ 

‘ But just now ? ^ said Madeline. 

‘ Ah ! that is the question,^ answered Mr Clifford. ‘ Things 
which are most innocent in themselves may be wrong because 
of peculiar circumstances.’ 

‘ And this would be wrong in me, then ? ’ inquired Madeline. 

‘ It will be wrong if it is likely to engross too much of your 
thoughts.’ 

‘ But what is too much ? ’ asked Madeline, eagerly. 

‘ What are your special duties at this season ? ’ answered her 
father. ‘ All which interferes with them will be too much.’ 

‘ I ought to spend some time every day in reading and think- 
ing about being confirmed, I know,’ said Madeline. 

‘ But going to the picnic will not interfere with that, except 
upon the one day ; and even then you might give up some time 
earlier in the morning.’ 

Madeline looked at him with an expression of sadness. ‘ Ah ! 
papa,’ she said, ‘ you think I am as good as Ruth. But if I do 
give up the time, I shall never fix my thoughts.’ 

Mr Cliftbrd smiled. ‘ We have reached the right point, my 
dear Madeline. I can quite understand your feelings. Most 
likely the picnic would occupy a good deal of your thoughts ; 
and, just now, when it is so very essential that you should be 
serious and collected, such a temptation may well be avoided ; 
at another time it might be better to battle with it. Only, J 
would ask you one question. What is it that makes the pic- 
nic too interesting — more interesting than religion ? ’ 

Madeline’s eyes filled with tears as she replied, ‘ Because I 
am so bad.’ 

Mr Cliftbrd took her hand in his ; ‘I did not mean to dis- 
tress you, my dear child. I was sure you felt this ; but will 

2 E 


434 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 


you try not to forget it ? I mean, to remember it always on 
similar occasions/ 

‘ I don’t think it will be easy to forget it,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Yes, indeed, it will be a great deal easier than you imagine. 
Many right-minded people are extremely apt to do so.’ 

‘ To forget that they do wrong things ? ’ said Madeline, with 
some surprise. 

‘ To forget that it is not because they are good, but because 
they are wicked, that innocent amusements do them harm,’ re- 
plied Mr Clifford. 

‘ Yet they are right in not joining in them,’ said Madeline. 

‘ Quite right ; but quite wrong if they condemn others. If 
you were very good, you might go to the picnic and not be at 
all disturbed by it. Others of your own age may go who will 
be preparing for confirmation like you. Their minds may be 
much steadier than yours. I wonder what you will think about 
them ? ’ 

Madeline did not know what to answer. 

‘ Will you, my love,’ continued Mr Clifford, ‘ make it an 
especial subject of prayer that you may be able to remember 
why you do not go ? And when the day comes, will you spend 
your time for meditation in thinking particularly about your 
faults ; seeing how great they are, and how many things are 
dangerous to you because of them } Such thoughts are our 
only safeguard when we refuse to join in the amusements of 
our friends. They are the only thoughts which can keep us 
from being proud and uncharitable.’ 

‘ I hope I should not think others wrong in going,’ said 
Madeline ; ‘ because Ruth will go, most probably, and she is 
so very good.’ 

‘ Does Ruth wish to go ’ asked Mr Clifford, quickly. 

‘ I think she does ; but she does not talk about it.’ Mr 
Clifford looked graver than before, Mt is a most important 
time for you both,’ he said. ‘ I should be glad to feel that you 
-were giving up as much thought to it as possible.’ 

I try every day,’ said Madeline ; ‘ but, papa, my thoughts 
go all away, and then I am very unhappy ;’ and here her voice 
changed, as she added, ‘ it is very wicked, I know, but I long 
sometimes to wait another year.’ 

‘ Another year would not help you, my child. You would 
come with the same request at the end of it.’ 

‘ And should I never be more fit ?’ said Madeline. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


435 

* Why seek for what God does not require ? ^ said Mr Clif- 
ford. ‘ When our Saviour restored the lame and the blind, did 
He wish them to walk and see a little before He made them 
quite whole t ^ 

‘ He told them they must have faith,’ said Madeline. 

Yes ; that is. He required a trust in His power, and a will- 
ingness to be cured. This is all He asks now of you.’ 

‘ I should like to be good more than anything,’ observed 
Madeline. 

‘ And not only that, but I think you are willing to do all that 
may be necessary, whether agreeable or not, in order to become 
good,’ continued her father. ‘ We must not separate these two 
things. A person suffering from some bodily disease, for in- 
stance, will say he would like to be cured ; but he may not like 
to try the remedy. He may be suffering from the toothache, 
and yet not agree to have the tooth extracted.’ 

‘ That is what I mean,’ said Madeline, quickly. ‘ I should 
like to feel that I had got rid of some of the bad things, and 
then I should be more sure that I was willing — that I was fit 
for the blessings. Because you know, papa,’ she added, in a 
faltering voice, ‘ I am not at all fit for the Holy Communion, 
and I must go to it if I am confirmed.’ 

‘ But, my dear Madeline,’ said Mr Clifford, ‘ the getting rid 
of these “ bad things,” as you term it, is to be the business of 
your life. Confirmation and the Holy Communion are to be 
your great assistants in this business. If you throw away the 
help, what are you to do .^’ 

‘ I might pray and read the Bible,’ said Madeline. 

‘ God tells you to do something more,’ replied Mr Clifford. 
‘ He will not accept us if we perform only half our duties.’ 

‘ And I must go,’ said Madeline, whilst the tears which had 
for some time been gathering flowed slowly down her cheeks. 

Mr Clifford suffered her to cry silently for some moments; at 
length he said, ‘ You are frightened, dearest.’ 

‘ Yes, so very frightened sometimes,’ said Madeline, in a 
broken voice ; ‘ and, papa, I think I should be glad not to go ; 
that shows how bad 1 am.’ 

Then if I were to tell you that you should never go,’ said 
Mr Clifford, ‘you would be contented?’ 

Madeline started. ‘ O papa ! no. I could not bear it.’ 

‘ And God does not wish you to bear it,’ replied her father. 
‘ He is willing — more willing than you can imagine — to receive 


436 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


you ; to love you and bless you, and make you happy. He 
asks for no fitness except that which you have yourself just this 
moment acknowledged. You may go to your confirmation, 
you may even kneel to receive the Holy Communion, conscious 
of all your faults, all your imperfections, yet with the same con- 
fidence in His love as you feel now in mine. And, Madeline, 
my child, by and by, years hence — if it should please God to 
spare your life — you will see all this fully, you will be thankful 
and happy then, that you were not suffered to give way to doubts 
and scruples now. Religion will be all in all to you.’ 

‘ As it is to you,’ said Madeline. 

A momentary shade passed over Mr Clifford’s countenance ; 
yet it was but momentary : a quiet, bright smile followed it, 
and he looked in his child’s face and said, ‘ Yes, Madeline, as 
it is, I trust now, all in all — the one great joy — the. one un- 
unchanging reality.’ 

Madeline was silent. The feelings gathering in her breast 
could find no words for utterance. She only said as she left 
the room, ‘ Then, papa, you will settle for me that I am not to 
go to the picnic.’ 


CHAPTER XLII. 

W E will take a glance at Mrs De Lacy’s drawing-room on 
the afternoon of the following day. It was a long, 
rather narrow room, terminating in a bow, with French windows 
opening upon a lawn. The furniture was too showy to be 
elegant. The paper attracted attention from its bright pink 
pattern and gilding ; the. eye was disturbed and confused by 
the number of odd-shaped chairs, sofas, inlaid tables, and light 
ornaments, which crowded a comparatively small space ; every 
book seemed to have dressed itself in its gayest binding ; and 
every article approaching to the useful was carefully disguised, 
by being turned into some shape totally unlike itself. 

By the round table, drawn into the recess of the bow, Jus- 
tine le Vergnier reclined, in a low easy chair, whilst Florence 
stood by her, picking to pieces a leaf of verbena. Justine wore 
. a walking-dress, but her very small transparent bonnet was un- 
tied, and thrown back off her head j and either this circum- 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 


437 


stance, or it might have been really an alteration in the expres- 
sion of her face, gave her a less gentle, quiet look than formerly. 
Her eyes moved more quickly, though they were always remarked 
as never being still ; her lips curled satirically ; her attitude 
was more studied and less graceful. She had an air of self- 
possession and determination, not pleasing in so young a per- 
son ; altogether there was the indescribable change, not to be 
seen in any one particular, but to be felt perpetually, which indi- 
cates a character that is lowering, not rising, in tone. Florence, 
in the presence of Justine, appeared a simple, retiring girl. 

* And my aunt has really brought matters to an end, then,’ 
said the former, throwing away the last atom of the faded leaf, 
and turning to Justine with a doubtful smile. 

‘ Ah, oui — that is, it must be an end soon. Madame is 
most entirely obliging, delighted : we shall be the best friends.’ 

‘ It would be all very well if it were not for that letter of 
Ruth’s,’ said Florence. ‘ If she has a conscience crotchet, she 
may do us harm at any moment.’ 

‘ Mais, tu es triste, mon amie,’ said Justine, laughing. ‘ I 
care nothing for Ruth ; and you have written.’ 

‘ Yes, but perhaps she may not come to the picnic ; or, she 
may choose to go and talk about you beforehand ; she threatens 
to do so. I wonder, Justine, you can take it all so quietly.’ 

* Now, listen,’ said Justine, holding up her finger, and looking 
archly at Florence ; ‘you know we are famous — we French, I 
mean — for sunshine — “ gaietd de cceur.” I am French; I have 
had heaps of troubles before — I shall have heaps again. But 
why vex me ? If I don’t stay here I shall go somewhere else 
— I shall do something.’ 

Florence looked at her with a mixture of wonder and irrita- 
tion. 

‘ What am I to do ? ’ she exclaimed. ‘ My aunt will say I 
have deceived her.’ 

Justine shrugged her shoulders. 

‘ Bien ! and if you have, it was for a friend. But where was 
the deceit ? Madame asked what I was like — you told her ; 
you gave my account. Who knows me as well as I know my- 
self.? What for should she ask questions of that woman — that 
Mrs Carter ? ’ 

‘ Mrs Carter is certainly extremely prejudiced,’ said 
F lorence. 

‘That is little! — c’est affreux — she tells. I would not say 


438 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


what she tells, and all because she would get another into my 
place.’ 

‘ And yet you can be indifferent whether Ruth talks about you 
or not?’ said Florence. 

' Point du tout ! — not at all indifferent ; but you see there are 
always ways. We will come over Ruth.’ 

‘Not so easily as you may think,’ replied Florence. 

‘ Pardon ! I knew Ruth when you did.’ 

‘ At school ; but you saw little enough of her.’ 

‘ Enough for what I wish. Ruth loves dearly to rule ; she 
loves to put that little finger of hers into other person’s con- 
cerns ; she shall put it into mine.’ 

‘ Yours ! ’ exclaimed Florence, in a tone of alarm. 

Justine laughed heartily. 

‘ Ah ! to be sure : you take fright ; but trust me. See what 
a pretty note I have written ; ’ and she drew a folded paper 
from her reticule, and gave it to Florence. ‘ You see, my 
happiness rests on her coming to the picnic,’ said Justine, still 
laughing, as she quoted her own words ; ‘ I have so much 
confidence to give her ; I want her advice. She can’t help her- 
self now — she must come.’ 

‘ And she must keep quiet till she has seen you,’ said 
Florence. 

‘ Of course ; Ruth is most proper — she is full of honour ; she 
will never speak till we have met.’ 

‘ And if you do meet, what then ? ’ inquired Florence. 

‘ We will see — we will think,’ said Justine, lightly tapping her 
forehead. ‘ I never was in a trouble yet, but I found my way 
out of it ! and we will go, mignonne, you and I ; we will have 
our treat ; we will be at Paris together.’ 

‘ And you will show me all the best shops, and tell my aunt 
about everything that is fit to be seen, and do just whatever I 
like,’ said Florence. 

‘ Oui, assurement ! let me only be there. Once in Paris — in 
my country — la belle France, we will have our pleasure then ; 
and it is so bright, so gay. Ah, Florence ! you don’t live in 
England ; it is all, as you said one day — eat, drink, sleep, and 
begin again.’ 

‘ The difficulty is to manage it,’ said Florence, musingly. 
‘ You will really take a great deal of care of Agnes, won’t you^ 
Justine?’ she added. 

‘ Surely ; the greatest of all. Did 1 not take care of the little 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


439 


Damleys ? That very evening when I went out to see my 
friends — the evening I was so caught ; I had put them all 
quietly to bed : they were asleep — very comfortable — no harm 
could happen to them/ 

^ You have a charming accent/ said Florence ; ‘ that is one 
great advantage. My aunt heard it remarked the other day, 
and she admires your voice extremely. If you only make 
Agnes sing as well, she will be quite satisfied.’ 

‘ Ah ! we will do everything — everything k merveille ! ’ 
answered Justine, laughing ; ‘ only just at the present moment 
we must think about this little affair. You are writing to 
Alice ; put my note in the envelope, and Alice will give it.’ 

‘ A good notion,’ observed Florence ; ‘we shall save a day by 
it ; for my aunt is going to drive over to the Manor this after- 
noon, and she can take it.’ 

‘ I wish I could be quite sure that there is no fear of Lady 
Catharine,’ said Justine, less lightly than was usual. 

‘ Oh ! you need not be under any alarm about her,’ replied 
Florence ; ‘ it was one of my first inquiries of Alice. I should 
never have proposed your staying here so long, if I had not 
been quite sure upon that point. Lady Catharine scarcely re- 
members your name, Alice says. You know Mrs Carter never 
tells more than she can help of her school matters ; and if she 
did, my aunt always calls you Veray, happily. I was never so 
grateful before for her habit of misnaming French people.’ 

‘Then you don’t wish to go with your aunt to-day? ’inquired 
Justine. . 

‘ Oh, no ; it was half proposed that I should, but I have no 
fancy for encountering Juno, even for the sake of Alice. The 
very sight of the Manor gives me a fit of low spirits ; and how 
Alice can exist there I can’t imagine. I should make up 
romances, and fill it with ghosts for my own amusement.’ 

‘ Ghosts !’ repeated Justine, and a strange look of thought 
crossed her face. ‘ Les revenans ! I don’t like them.’ 

Florence began to laugh, but Justine was grave. 

‘ I could not live in a place where there were any,’ she said ; 
and then she added quickly, ‘What shall we do this after- 
noon ?’ 

‘ Now, really, Justine, you are silly,’ persisted Florence. 
‘ Ghosts are nothings.’ 

‘ I am not so certain ; I don’t fancy them,’ again obserx’ed 
Justine, 


440 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


‘ And you look quite in earnest,’ said Florence, fixing her 
eyes upon her. 

‘ Ah, oui, in earnest ; one must be in earnest sometimes.’ 

Justine sighed ; and Florence said, in a tone of vexation — 

‘ Why, Justine, you are dull ; what has come over you all of 
a sudden ? ’ 

‘ Ce n’est rien, c’est une folie ; what shall we do this after- 
noon ?’ 

‘ Drive in the pony-chaise ; but, Justine, I should like to 
know,’ said Florence, according to her old custom, still keeping 
up a disagreeable subject, ‘ I should be glad if you would tell 
me what made you grow so dull in a minute ? ’ 

' We are all dull at times,’ replied Justine ; ‘ that is, in Eng- 
land. No one is dull in France.’ 

‘ You must not be dull with my aunt,’ observed Florence ; 
‘ she cannot endure dulness. It must be nothing but talking 
and laughing for ever to suit her ; that is what she likes in 
you.’ 

^ Well ! she may depend ; I will do my best,’ replied Justine. 
‘ But you see, Florence, chere amie, one sits alone now and 
then, and then the thoughts come. It was all Mrs Carter ; 
she put them into my head first.’ 

‘ But w'hat thoughts?’ inquired Florence, in a curious tone. 

‘ All sorts ; very dull ones. It was such a dull house ; it 
gives me “ les vapeurs ” to think of it.’ 

‘What do you mean ?’ asked Florence. 

‘ Why, you ought to know,’ replied Justine, impatiently; ‘you 
have said the same yourself.’ 

‘ I don’t remember ; I can’t understand,’ continued Florence, 
‘ I wish you would be plain.’ 

Justine shrugged her shoulders, and exclaimed against the 
stupidity of Florence, and then added — 

‘ It was not always so ; when I was in London first, I was 
■■^ery bright — always laughing ; the world seemed quite merry ; 
and when I went amongst you all, that was bright too. I 
liked it ; I liked Mrs Carter ; she was very kind, and I could 
bear the sermons, though she gave me a good many. Now 
and then I listened to them and tried to please her. It was 
just a fit, but it went off. Clara Manners laughed at her, and 
I laughed. One can’t think gravely about things that people 
say when one laughs at them ; and so, by and by, I came to care 
less for her long speeches ; and then they were tiresome to me, 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


441 

and then I could not bear them, and I took to reading those 
books just to .forget them.’ 

‘ And the fuss that was made ! ’ said Florence, lifting up her 
hands. 

‘ Yes, the fuss ! shall you ever forget it ? But I was better 
off than you ; I could get away and read just as many as I 
chose ; and they were charming ; they put all the long sermons 
out of my head. She used to call sometimes and go over all 
the old grievances, and I behaved very well ; I listened like a 
lamb ; but I never cared for anything, because I could forget.’ 

‘ There will be one comfort here,’ said Florence ; ‘ my aunt 
will never preach dull sermons to you.’ 

‘But it is the forget which is the trouble,’ said Justine ; ‘all 
that talking and preaching, and telling one to say prayers, and 
think that some day or other I am to grow old and die, comes 
back ; it makes me ill. When you said about the ghosts, it 
came ; it is quite sudden ; it does not stay, but it is horrible ; it 
makes me feel — ah !’ and Justine drew a long breath. 

Florence looked rather blank at this announcement. 

‘ You don’t mean to have these fits often, do you ?’ she said. 

‘ Mean ! but who would have them that could help ? No, I 
dance, sing, play, anything but think.’ 

‘ And you may read too,’ observed Florence. ‘ My aunt likes 
novels, and she will lend you as many as you wish.’ 

‘ But it is not the same as it was ; I read, but I am tired. I 
don’t care for the books now,’ said Justine, yawning ; ‘ they are 
all alike. Ah ! Florence, to be rich ! that is the thing.’ 

‘ Yes, that is the thing,’ said Florence ; ‘ one could have so 
many pleasures if one were only rich.’ 

‘ But you are rich ; you can go where you like ; think of me, 
without a penny in the world, if I don’t work, work, and talk, 
and teach ; and forced besides to go here, and stay there, and 
never have a will of my own. Oh ! it is sad — this life.’ 

‘ Pauvre petite ! I am very sorry for you,’ said Florence, 
kindly ; ‘ but if we can have our way about Paris, it will all be 
well ; and we will forget the ghosts and the sermons.’ 

Justine rose suddenly from her seat, and opening the piano, 
began to sing a lively French air. Florence lingered near her, 
praising and caressing her. Justine’s face resumed its usual 
expression, and before a quarter of an hour had elapsed, her 
manner was as light and her voice as gay as if she had never 
been troubled by a serious thought. 


442 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

T hat same day at the Manor was spent by Alice unlike 
that of Florence, but it was not without importance to 
her. It did not, indeed, differ materially from many others which 
she had lately passed, but there is no such thing as standing 
still in life. As we move onwards in time, so we also move 
onwards in the formation of our characters. The direction 
which Alice was taking was unfortunately a wrong one, though 
it might not have seemed so at the first glance. Alice was 
passing a busy morning ; her table was spread with scraps of 
paper, account-books, lists of names, and calculations ; upon 
her desk a large ruled book lay open, filled with strokes and 
dots, and various unintelligible marks ; and some untidy black 
pens, torn sheets of blotting paper, and a ragged pen-wiper, 
were near it. Alice had a pencil and a ruler in her hand, and 
was just proceeding to work, to make up some of the club 
accounts, when Lady Catharine looked into the room. 

‘ What are you doing, my dear ? ’ she said ; ‘ I thought this 
was your reading morning.’ 

‘ I am going to finish the accounts,’ was Alice’s reply. 

* The accounts ? I understood they were to have been done 
yesterday.’ 

‘ I had not time,’ replied Alice, beginning to rule diligently. 
Lady Catharine advanced into the room. ‘ My dear, I don’t 
hke that excuse. I hear it a great deal too often. If you 
managed your time properly there would be no occasion for it.’ 

‘ I was out yesterday afternoon,’ said Alice. 

‘ I beg your pardon, my dear, you were not out very long. 
You had sufficient leisure when you returned : what did you do 
with yourself ? ’ 

‘ I read history,’ said Alice, rather sulkily. 

‘ But I wish you to read in the morning. Had you no time 
then either ? ’ 

‘ Not enough,’ said Alice. 

Lady Catharine bit her lip. Mt is so strange, my dear, that 
when I have marked out your day, given you precise hours for 
everything, when you really have nothing whatever to interfere 
with you, that you should still be so exceedingly irregular. 
What was the reason that you did not read in the morning .?’ 
Alice blushed, and said she had taken up the ^ Bride of 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


443 


Lammermoor,’ and had become so interested in it that she did 
not know how the time went by, till it was nearly the luncheon 
hour. 

Lady Catharine was too much annoyed to be softened by 
Alice’s sincerity. She walked up to the book-case, and stood 
before it thinking. ‘ I had hoped these books would have had 
a different effect,’ she said. ‘ They were meant for proper 
recreation at proper hours.’ 

Alice went on with her occupation, but the very manner in 
which she handled her pencil showed that a storm was brewing. 

‘ If you were a baby, Alice,’ continued Lady Catharine, ‘ I 
should be inclined to take these books to my own room, and only 
lend them to you at particular times. They are a sad tempta- 
tion where there is no strength of mind to resist.’ 

Alice looked up, and said with an indifferent air, ‘ Certainly 
it might be better if they were not here.’ 

Lady Catharine made no reply. She came near to Alice, and 
saw what she was doing, and then she said coldly, ‘ Your 
method is a bad one ; you will never be correct if you do 
not arrange the names alphabetically.’ 

Alice continued ruling. 

‘ You can never refer easily, if you do not,’ continued Lady 
Catharine. ‘ Has Mr Clifford seen the book .?’ 

Alice replied that she had shown it to him once, but he had 
not found fault with it. 

* That was because he was too good-natured,’ said Lady 
Catharine ; ‘ and in fact, gentlemen do not understand these 
things well. It would be quite worth your while to begin it 
again.’ 

Alice’s pencil dropped from her fingers, and she laid her hands 
on her lap. 

^ Of course, my dear, you think me very particular,’ said Lady 
Catharine, trying to assume a gentler voice : ‘ but when you are 
arrived at my age, you will see that these little things constitute 
the real comfort and well-being of our lives. Without order, 
neatness, and regularity, the highest virtues may become com- 
paratively useless.’ 

Alice turned to a blank page, and rising, offered Lady Catha- 
rine her seat ; and asked if she would have the kindness to show 
her in what way she thought the accounts might be better kept. 

Lady Catharine hesitated, then she sat down', and began to 
examine the book. She read over some of the names, and com- 


444 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


merited upon them. ^ “Gibbs;” they pay constantly, I see. 
“ Moore ; ” I wonder they have kept on so long, with the husband 
so ill. “ Barker ; ” they were always irregular, when I had the 
management ; but they must be inquired after. “ Goring ; ” I 
see they only paid the first three weeks. Take the names down 
on paper, Alice, and we will go and inquire about them this 
afternoon.’ 

Alice said that Mr Clifford had spoken to her upon the sub- 
ject, and she had intended to go herself and tell the people they 
must be regular. 

‘ Hem ! I don’t know. Did Mr Clifford beg you to go?’ 

‘ Ruth and Madeline used to do it, and I thought I might,’ 
said Alice. 

‘ We can go together,’ said Lady Catharine. ‘ I shall like to 
have the opportunity of talking to the people myself ; and I am 
not fond of your visiting the cottages alone.’ 

Lady Catharine did not see the expression of Alice’s face, 
or she would probably have continued her task of arranging 
the accounts with less satisfaction. She went on in happy 
ignorance, really doing Alice very material service, and, by her 
neatness and precision, clearing all difficulties ; and Alice stood 
by with folded hands, silent and abstracted. When Lady 
Catharine had finished half a page, she said cheerfully, as she 
held the pencil over her shoulder to Alice, ‘ There, my dear, I 
think I have done some good ; now you will go on easily.’ 

An icicle could not have been more chilling than Alice’s 
‘Thank you.’ 

Lady Catharine turned round suddenly, looked her fall in the 
face, and laying her hand upon her, said, very gravely, ‘ Alice, 
are we always to live together in this way ? ’ 

Alice withdrew her hand, but did not speak. 

‘ Have you nothing to say ?’ continued Lady Catharine. 

‘ I am sorry to have vexed you,’ replied Alice. 

Lady Catharine rose up in her most stately manner. ‘ Alice,’ 
she said, ‘ you know that is not what I require. I do not wish 
you to say you are sorry, when you do not feel it.’ 

‘ I am sorry I did not finish the accounts yesterday,’ said 
Alice ; and there was evidently truth in the acknowledgment. 

‘ It is not one case which is of consequence,’ observed Lady 
Catharine ; ‘ it is the perpetual repetition, the constant neglect 
of small duties, which I complain of. You are always late ; 
always behindhand ; always untidy; always forgetting.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


445 

Alice’s features grew more rigid as Lady Catharine became 
more excited. 

‘ When I was your age/ continued Lady Catharine, ‘ I was 
always dressed by seven ; I read the Psalms and Lessons, and 
some devotional book for half an hour ; then I entered upon the 
business of the day. My life was ordered with the most perfect 
regularity. I never undertook a task till I had appointed the 
hour at which it was to be performed. I had the care of my own 
wardrobe ; there was never a button or a hook missing. I read 
history every day, and I now have books and books which I filled 
with notes. When I was taken into society I always arranged 
my time so that my pursuits should not be materially interfered 
with. I am not telling you these things, Alice, with any notion 
of having been better than other people, but merely to show you 
what I did myself ; and, therefore, what I have a fair right to 
expect from you.’ 

Alice stood like a statue. 

‘ These are no light matters/ continued Lady Catharine ; 
‘ they tell upon your inward habit of mind. If you cannot make 
an exertion in small things, you cannot make it in great ^ and 
how then will you be fitted for confirmation ? It is a very 
serious question indeed.’ 

Alice changed colour ; it seemed as if she were about to 
take some desperate resolution ; but the conversation was 
interrupted. 

A servant announced that Mrs De Lacy was in the drawing- 
room. 

‘ I will come,’ said Lady Catharine ; and, when the door 
closed, she repeated again, ‘ it is a very serious question, Alice ; 
— I leave you to think of it.’ 

Lady Catharine walked slowly out of the room, and then 
Alice sat down, and resting her head upon the table, cried 
bitterly. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

J UNO herself could not have received a visitor to Olympus 
with a more majestic air than that with which Lady Catha- 
rine Hyde greeted Mrs De Lacy. She was in no humour to be 
agreeable, and unfortunately Mrs De Lacy was not a person to 


44^ 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


produce a favourable impression; for she was deficient in ability 
and tact, and Lady Catharine grew more ceremonious as she found 
it difficult to think of anything to say. Mrs De Lacy asked for 
Alice, but Lady Catharine would not propose to send for her ; 
and, after having endured her penance as long as civility re- 
quired, Mrs De Lacy rose to take leave, laying on the table at 
the same time a note for Alice, and expressing a formal hope 
that nothing would prevent their meeting next week at St Cuth- 
bert’s. The arrangements for the picnic were not quite made ; 
when they were she would do herself the honour of communi- 
cating with Lady Catharine respecting them. Lady Catharine 
bowed. She would willingly have declared that she would have 
nothing to do with the picnic, and that Alice would be much 
better at home ; but the habit of self-command was more power- 
ful than the feeling of annoyance, and Mrs De Lacy departed, 
congratulating herself that the visit was over, and designating 
Lady Catharine as the most tiresome, stiff, haughty piece of 
propriety she had ever encountered. 

Lady Catharine sat in silent meditation when her visitor was 
gone. But it was neither Mrs De Lacy’s wearisome insipidity, 
nor Alice’s conduct which occupied her thoughts. She reflected 
upon her own cold manner — her spirit of impatience at imper- 
fection — the want of sympathy she was conscious of having 
shown ; and, having blamed herself in one instance, she began 
to consider how far she had b6en right in others. Her treat- 
ment of Alice was always a fertile topic of inquiry, and she was 
still considering it, when another visitor was announced — rather 
an unusual one at that time of the day — Mr Clifford. Lady 
Catharine’s natural distance of manner was never entirely over- 
come even by her thorough respect for Mr Clifford’s character, 
and reverence for his office. But Mr Clifford was one of the 
few persons to whom it was a matter of indifference. His 
greeting was as hearty as if he had been sure of having it fully 
returned, instead of receiving a passive touch from a stiff hand, 
which seemed moved by wires, and fell helplessly as soon as the 
first impetus had ceased. His tone also was generally cheerful 
and free, and Lady Catharine, like many other cold-mannered 
persons, peculiarly enjoyed the society of those who would draw 
her out of herself. This day, however, Mr Clifford appeared 
under restraint, and talked about the weather and the crops, 
subjects which are always suspicious between persons who ought 
to be at home with each other. Presently he inquired how 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 


447 


Alice was. Lady Catharine smoothed her mittens and knitted 
her brow, and said she was quite well. This was sufficient to 
show Mr Clifford that ‘ welP did not mean well in mind. 
Vv'ithout attempting to introduce by degrees the subject upon 
which he wished to speak, he said — 

‘ I have been desirous, for some days. Lady Catharine, to 
talk to you about Alice.^ 

Lady Catharine’s face changed instantly. The cloud of 
reserve passed away, and she gave Mr Clifford her hand again, 
and said, ‘ Thank you : Alice is always in my thoughts.’ 

‘ You are anxious about her, I am afraid,’ said Mr Clifford ; 
‘ so am I : but I should be glad to learn from you that there is 
no cause for it.’ 

Lady Catharine sighed, and the deep, sorrowful lines in her 
forehead seemed to contract and grow more marked. 

‘ I am afraid there is cause,’ continued Mr Clifford. < I am 
afraid Alice is not yet what we both desire to sec her.’ He 
paused for a moment, and added, ‘ I have a doubt whether, in 
her present state, she is fitted for confirmation.’ 

Lady Catharine gave a slight start ; then, as if ashamed of 
such an expression of quick feeling, stretched her neck and 
threw back her head, and again began to smooth and settle the 
black mittens, which already fitted her hands like wax. A look 
of proud displeasure rested upon her countenance ; but it did 
not remain there. There was a struggle of some moments 
between natural haughtiness and Christian lowliness, whilst she 
leaned her elbow upon an arm of the chair, trying to cover her 
face with her hand, and hide the large tears which rolled slowly 
down her cheeks. 

Mr Clifford was pained to see her ; but he was compelled 
to pursue the subject. ‘ You are disappointed, my dear Lady 
Catharine,’ he said ; ‘ and not you alone — all who love you, 
and know how your heart rests upon Alice, are feeling with 
you.’ 

‘ No,’ exclaimed Lady Catharine, looking up ; ‘to feel with 
me is impossible.’ 

She was silent again, and Mr Clifford doubted how far he 
might venture to say more. But Lady Catharine presently 
continued, in a gentler but very hurried tone. 

‘ Mr Clifford, you have known the history of my past life — 
my early happiness — my great trial ; and you have seen its 
enect. 1 long lived to myself, solitary in feeling, devoted as I 


s 


44S 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


hoped to the service of God. Earth had no charm for me; it 
was but a dreary passage to a happier world. But God gave 
me an interest for this present world ; Alice was left to me, 
and I was not only contented, but thankful to live. I thought 
that I was once more to know happiness. Only in a few short 
months the happiness was gone. I saw that Alice must not be 
educated by me, and I sent her from me. I bore that separa- 
tion ; for it seemed only for a time, and I believed that when 
she returned we should only be the more happy together from 
having been for a while parted. When the time came for her 
to leave school, I looked forward with delight to having her as 
a companion. I gave up thought, and comfort, and leisure, to 
make arrangements for her. I would have done a thousand 
times more and considered it no hardship, and what is my 
return 1 ' Lady Catharine’s voice grew husky, and she paused. 

‘ Rather what will be the return by and by ? ’ said Mr 
Clifford, mildly. At Alice’s age ’ 

Lady Catharine interrupted. ‘ Alice is older than your own 
children. What would be your feelings if you were told they 
were not fitted for confirmation ? ’ 

*■ Most painful, doubtless,’ he replied. ‘ But indeed. Lady 
Catharine, you have mistaken me if you thought I meant to 
decide the question. I have called this morning only to ask 
your opinion upon it.’ 

‘ I can give none,’ replied Lady Catharine. ‘ Alice is en- 
tirely reserved with me. I believe she reads the books which 
you recommend, and she acquiesces in any observation I may 
make ; but that is all.’ 

And her daily conduct ’ — began Mr Clifford. 

‘ Her daily conduct is a mystery. I have no idea what 
principles govern her. Sometimes she seems bent upon attend- 
ing to her duties, and occasionally, though very rarely, the 
motive seems to be that of pleasing me. Then again she is 
careless, self-willed and moody, and shows a coldness of feeling 
which is utterly repelling.’ 

I can scarcely imagine Alice to be really cold,’ observed 
Mr Clifford. ‘ I have always imagined that she possessed 
strong feelings, if they could be brought out. Do you not 
think that it sometimes answers to take feeling and principle for 
granted ? ’ 

‘ I do not quite understand you,’ was Lady Catharine’s stiff 
reply, as she had recourse to her knitting. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


449 


* I mean/ replied Mr Clifford, ^ that some young persons — 
Alice may be amongst the number — are more worked upon by 
knowing that it is believed they have good feelings and inten- 
tions than by being suspected of having bad ones, or at least 
none at all/ 

‘ I cannot believe in what I do not think exists,’ said Lady 
Catharine. 

‘ But,’ continued Mr Clifford, — ‘ you must forgive me if I am 
speaking ignorantly, — Alice does occasionally appear to have 
right principles.’ ** 

‘ Very seldom.’ 

‘ Still it is sometimes. Do you not find her then alive to 
encouragement ? ’ 

Lady Catharine was silent. Encouragement she was con- 
scious was not very often given. Presently she threw aside her 
knitting, and looking steadily at Mr Clifford, said, ‘ You think 
I have pursued a wrong system with Alice ? ’ 

It was an observation difficult to answer. After a momentary 
hesitation, Mr Clifford said, ‘ I have no right to judge; I know 
so little of Alice’s daily life.’ 

‘ Truth is better than civility,’ observed Lady Catharine, very 
coldly ; and she returned again to her work. 

Mr Clifford did not allow even a shade of annoyance to be 
visible on his face, and answered, with perfect gentleness, ‘ I 
desire always to be true. I cannot really judge correctly about 
Alice ; but I should imagine our views with regard to her 
might differ.’ 

‘ Very possibly,’ replied Lady Catharine, shortly. 

‘ Alice is no longer a child,’ continued Mr Clifford. 

‘Not in age, but in character she is.’ 

‘ Still, do you not think it may be safer to treat her accord- 
ing to her age ? We are sure of that, we are not sure of her 
disposition.’ 

‘ I don’t know, these modern notions are beyond me. I was 
brought up to be perfectly obedient ; I wish Alice to be the 
same.’ 

‘ Again I must refer to her age,’ said Mr Clifford. 

‘ As a sanction for disobedience .?’ exclaimed Lady Catharine. 

‘ That is the last thing I should have expected from you.’ 

‘ No ; not for the world to sanction disobedience,’ he replied : . 
* but if there are few rules, there is less opening for disobe- 
dience.’ 


4 50 LAN ETON PARSON A GE. 

Lady Catharine knitted extremely fast, and began to count 
her stitches diligently. 

‘ Of course,’ pursued Mr Clifford, ^ if Alice had not been 
brought up in habits of obedience, I should be alarmed at the 
idea of giving her freedom now. I really cannot say too 
strongly how entirely I uphold strict discipline for veiy young 
children. Obedience in them is no obedience at all to my 
mind, unless it is instantaneous. What persons generally call 
obedience, strikes me as mere rebellion. I would make a baby 
in arms obedient. But when this is done, I think we need not 
be afraid of liberty at such an age as Alice has reached.’ 

‘ This may be all very well for Ruth and Madeline,’ said 
Lady Catharine ; ‘ but Alice is different. You do not know 
her, Mr Clifford.’ 

‘ No indeed, I do not,’ he answered ; ‘ that is my great 
trouble.’ 

^ She is uncertain, wilful, hasty, vain, careless — she is really 
very provoking,’ said Lady Catharine. 

^ Yes, I can fully believe it ; but she has, I suppose, qualities 
on the other side 

‘ Oh yes ; a great many. She is reverent-minded ; and I 
don’t think she is conceited ; and she feels, I believe, quickly 
and warmly, though she does not show it much to me. Then, 
although she is not naturally sincere, I sometimes find her very 
candid ; and she has a good deal of energy, though no per- 
severance.’ 

^ They are good materials to work upon,’ observed Mr Clif- 
ford. 

‘ Yes ; but what is to be done if they are counterbalanced 
by the bad.?’ 

^ There are two methods to be tried,’ was the reply ; ‘ neither 
of them indeed separately ; but, as a principle, one will always 
predominate — either constantly to check the evil, or to make a 
point of encouraging the good.’ 

Lady Catharine answered rather abruptly, ‘To consider these 
properly would lead us into a discussion upon the very first 
principles of education.’ 

‘ Yes ; and I would not intrude upon your time ; and I 
really have not enough of my own to spare. I merely threw 
out the remark as a sugg-estion.’ 

‘ You uphold encouraging the good ? ’ said Lady Catharine. 

‘ Yes ; and I think I have good authority. But I must not 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


451 


enter further into the subject now. I think, however, you 
would find that when the good points of a character are en- 
couraged, the bad ones will often die away.^ 

Lady Catharine only replied, ‘ It may be so and then, re- 
turning to the former topic, inquired what were Mr Clifford’s 
intentions as to the confirmation. 

‘ I came,^ he said, ‘ hoping to receive some information here ; 
but as that cannot be, I think it will be advisable to make an 
effort myself to reach the state of Alice’s mind. I must cer- 
tainly be more satisfied about her before I pronounce her fit 
for confirmation.’ 

He spoke decidedly, and Lady Catharine again looked ex- 
tremely distressed. She did not, however, endeavour to alter 
his impression, but wished him good morning at first as stiffly 
as usual. Mr Clifford’s manner, however, softened her, and 
tears stood in her eyes as she shook his hand with heartiness, 
and said, ‘ If I have made a mistake I am already punished for 
it.’ 

When Mr Clifford was gone. Lady Catharine went to her 
room, and sent a message to Alice, that she might, if she liked 
it, spend the afternoon at the Parsonage. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


LICE had seldom been more sensible of the comfort of 



having friends near her than when she sat down to 
dinner at the Parsonage ; for the time being, free and uncon- 
strained. Ruth, indeed, was not in one of her gayest moods, 
but this suited the melancholy temper of mind in which Alice 
left the Manor ; and her spirits were more soothed by the 
quiet, sensible conversation which passed than they could have 
been by mirth, in which she would not have been inclined 
to join. They went to the shore in the evening ; Ruth 
and Alice walked together. The tide was going out, 
and all was very still, though the waves splashed gently as 
they rolled over the hard ribbed sand which stretched away to 
a great distance, covered in parts by shallow pools, that 
sparkled like burnished gold in the light of the sinking summer 
sun. Alice had a natural taste for beauty in nature ; she 


452 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


could catch the different effects of light and shade with some-r 
thing of an artist’s eye ; and now she pointed out to Ruth the 
high jutting rocks, black with the accumulation of sea-weed, 
which, with the dark outline of the red cliffs, formed a mass of 
shadow boldly contrasting with the brilliant colouring of the 
sky. Ruth’s eye followed the same direction, but it did not 
rest there ; it travelled higher, where purple clouds, tipped with 
gold, were piled one upon another, in forms of mountains, and 
castles, and cliffs, melting, as they approached nearer to the 
sun, into shapes of dazzling brilliancy, or spreading themselves 
out in long clear lines, till the whole breadth of the horizon was a 
sheet of vivid colour. 

Time had been when Ruth would have gazed upon that 
radiant spectacle, that type of the glory which shall be here- 
after, and thought only of purity, and hope, and the loveliness 
of an untainted world. Then, in childhood, her heart would 
have bounded within her, for the hues of the evening sky would 
have seemed the actual reality of heaven. Now she was 
changed ! Childhood had passed, and with it its radiant de- 
ceptions. Ruth thought that she saw more clearly ; she had 
learned to account for what she looked upon ; to know why the 
clouds took their colouring from the sun ; to be aware that 
forms which appeared so majestic were masses of vapour. She 
no longer fancied it possible to wander amongst the golden 
rocks, or sail upon the smooth sheet of water which appeared 
floating around their base ; and at this calm and most beautiful 
hour her thoughts were only of earth. 

Poor Ruth ! it was a sad exchange that she was making ; it 
is a sad exchange which we all make when we begin to take so 
great an interest in this world as to cease to be reminded of 
another. Even Alice was more open to enjoyment from the 
scene than she was ; for Alice was sorrowful, and a heavy heart 
makes us look with interest upon the boundless, glorious sky, 
because it seems that, if we once could reach it, we should have 
passed beyond the power of mortal care. 

Alice waited with patience whilst Ruth wished to rest. After 
a long silence, Ruth spoke — 

‘ I wonder whether this weather will continue next week — it 
will be beautiful for the picnic.’ 

‘ I had forgotten the picnic,’ said Alice, heaving a deep 
sigh : ‘ shall you enjoy it ? ’ 

‘ IMadeline is not going,’ was Ruth’s evasive observation ; 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


453 

and before Alice could interrupt her by expressing surprise, she 
added, ‘ You will go, of course.’ 

Alice said ‘she did not know ; and began searching for some- 
thing in the pocket of her dress. ‘ Where can it be ? ’ she said. 
‘ I remember now; Marsham gave it me just as I was coming 
away : it was a note from Florence. Mrs De Lacy brought it. 
Do you know, I was in such a hurry, so worried, I forgot to 
look at it.’ She produced the envelope, and broke the seal. 
Justine’s note fell to the ground. Ruth saw that it was for 
her, and guessed from whom it came by the cramped hand- 
writing. She did not choose to read it then, and Alice did not 
notice that she had it. ‘ Florence is careful now,’ said Alice, 
after she had skimmed her own note. ‘ I must thank you, 
Ruth, for that ; but I think I troubled myself without causo 
Things cannot be worse than they are ; Lady Catharine is de- 
termined never to be pleased with me ; so whether she scolds 
me for one thing more or less does not much signify.’ - 

Ruth’s attention was attracted by Alice’s desponding tone, 
and she exclaimed, ‘ Dear Alice, there must be something going 
on worse than usual.’ 

‘ I don’t know that it is worse,’ replied Alice, ^ only perhaps 
I feel it more to-day, and there seems no end to it. And it 
was not so much my fault. I was doing what I was obliged to 
do ; settling the accounts. Why should she fret me to-day for 
what was wrong yesterday ? ’ 

Ruth drew figures on the sand by way of occupation, for she 
really did not know what answer to make to this often-repeated 
style of complaint, and she did not quite understand how the 
constant repetition of any particular annoyance tends to in- 
crease it. 

Alice perceived Ruth’s want of sympathy ; and, leaving her, 
walked away by herself, till a projecting rock hid her from sight. 
Then she sat down upon the sand, resting against the rock, and, 
closing her eyes, listened to the low rushing of the waves, 
whilst suffering thoughts and fancies to pass through her mind 
rapidly, and without connection, as in a dream. They were all 
sorrowful, all tending to increase the conviction that her lot in 
life was a sorrowful one, and destined to become still more so. 
Alice sat long in this mood ; at last she heard her name repeated, 
and looking up, saw Mr Clifford making his way to her over 
the rocks. As he came near, he began to rally her upon her 
sudden passion for solitude. Alice had no heart to answer in 


454 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


the same strain, and merely said, that she liked quietness 
sometimes. 

* And this is a pleasant seat/ said Mr Clifford, tlirowing him- 
self upon the sand by her side ; ‘ I am glad you like quietness, 
Alice. As a boy,’ he continued, ‘ I have spent many hours on 
such evenings as this, watching the sun sinking, and fancying 
myself travelling with it to other lands. Now one has little 
leisure for such dreamings.’ 

‘ I don’t like sunset,’ observed Alice ; ‘ it is always melan- 
choly.’ 

* But a little melancholy is not disagreeable,’ said Mr Clifford ; 
‘ a very little — such as one feels when relaxing after a hard 
day’s work.’ 

Alice showed no willingness to enter into the conversation. 
She stood up and remarked, that as the tide was coming in, 
they had better go back. 

‘ Wait a few minutes,’ said Mr Clifford ; ^ there is no hurry ; 
and Ruth is gone to meet her mamma and Madeline.’ 

Alice felt herself caught in a snare ; for she was certain that 
something serious was coming. 

‘ Here is a comfortable seat for you,’ said Mr Clifford, point- 
ing to a large stone ; and Alice, unable to find an excuse for 
escape, reseated herself. ‘ I am glad to have this opportunity 
of saying a few words to you, Alice,’ he added ; ‘ we are not 
often alone together.’ 

Alice said ‘ No ;’ she could think of nothing else. 

< And we have a good deal to talk about, have we not ?* 

Alice said she did not know. 

‘ Time runs on quickly. The confirmation day will be here 
soon — in a month.’ 

‘ Yes ; about a month.’ 

Alice’s tone and manner were certainly most discouraging. 

‘ You are like my child now, Alice,’ continued Mr Clifford ; 
‘ you know I must be answerable for what you are going to do. 
If you were to be confirmed without being properly prepared, it 
would be my fault.’ 

Alice did not understand, and answered that she supposed 
she should be prepared after she had attended all the examina- 
tions. 

Mt is not the preparation of the intellect which I am speaking 
of,’ replied Mr Clifford, ‘ but the preparation of the heart.’ 

A sudden light dawned upon Alice’s mind, and made her very 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


455 


uncomfortable. Could Mr Clifford possibly mean that she was 
not fit to be confirmed. She played with the pebbles on the 
shore, and made no answer. 

‘ You must let me be plain with you, my dear Alice,’ was Mr 
Clifford’s next observation ; ^ as your clergyman should be. I 
am anxious about you.’ 

Alice murmured that he was very kind. 

‘ I am afraid you will not think it kind when you comprehend 
me,’ he replied. 

Alice started, but recovered herself instantly, and said 
haughtily, that she supposed Lady Catharine had been finding 
fault with her. 

No, indeed, Alice, you are mistaken. Lady Catharine says 
nothing but what I can myself see. You are arrived at the 
proper age for confirmation ; but it is quite possible that you 
may not be in the proper state of mind.’ 

Alice answered that she should be glad to know what the 
particular things were which Lady Catharine complained of. 

I have told you before,’ replied Mr Clifford, in a severe tone, 
‘ that Lady Catharine does not make particular complaints. 
What we l^oth fear is, that you have not sufficiently realised the 
greatness of the work before you, and therefore have not sum- 
moned sufficient strength of will to perform it. Will you tell 
me one thing.? ■ I have given you, at different times, directions as 
to your private preparation for confirmation — have you attended 
to them ?’ 

‘ I began,’ said Alice, finding herself obliged to speak. 

‘ You began, but you did not go on; that may possibly do for 
your amusements, but it will not do for your religion. The very 
essence of religion is, that it should be unchanging — the fixed 
devotion of the heart for life.’ 

Alice made no answer. 

‘ We will think a little more upon this subject,’ continued 
I.T r Clifford. ‘ Persons who do great works make themselves 
tlioroughly acquainted with their object. I think if you were to 
understand better what is required of you as a Christian, you 
might be persuaded that it will not be sufficient to begin, but 
tliat you must have resolution to go on and labour.’ 

Alice answered that she thought she knew what a Christian 
ought to be. 

‘ I doubt it,’ he replied ; ‘ but you shall tell me what your 
ideas are.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


456 

‘ I think people ought to be very good/ said Alice. 

‘ But that is so vague ; I should like to hear more in detail.* 

He waited for the next observation, but Alice only looked 
confused, and began twisting and playing with a bunch of sea- 
weed upon the rock near her. 

‘ Well, then,’ said Mr Clifford, after a silence of some moments, 

‘ since you cannot explain your notions of your duties, will you 
let me explain mine ? I will begin with the easiest — those 
which you and I, and we all, owe to ourselves and our fellow- 
creatures. Suppose we take them in the order in which the 
Church puts them. A person then desirous of doing his duty 
to his neighbour, would be required first of all to love him as 
himself ; now that means, what Alice was still silent. ‘Shall 
I say what it would mean for you continued Mr Clifford. ‘It 
is better, perhaps, to confine our attention to ourselves in these 
matters. If you, then, were to make up your mind really and 
heartily to fulfil your duty to your neighbour, you would be 
obliged to consult the wishes of all about you ; to give up your 
own fancies and pleasures, and think of suiting theirs ; and 
this, not only with regard to persons set over you, but all per- 
sons ; your friends and companions — your servants even, so far 
as never to give them unnecessary trouble, never to disturb their 
comforts, and to try and sympathise in their sorrows and their 
joys. In all cases, where there was any doubt as to what you 
should do, you would be obliged to put yourself in the place of 
others, and judge honestly as to what they might reasonably 
demand of you ; any bias in your own favour would be a fault. 
Your duty would also be to look upon the friend whom God 
has given you in the place of your parents with the greatest 
reverence ; to love her, to obey her — implicitly, constantly, 
without murmuring, in the smallest particular as well as the 
most important. You would be greatly to blame if she were 
in any way to be made unhappy or uncomfortable by your 
neglect.’ 

Alice almost groaned, so heavy was her sigh ; but Mr Clifford 
took no notice. 

‘ Besides domestic duties,’ he continued, ‘ you would be re- 
quired to pay respect to all persons in authority. You ought 
never to speak lightly even of those who seem quite removed 
from you. It may seem unnecessary to tell you to honour the 
Queen, yet I am afraid you would think it no harm to repeat 
idle, disrespectful stories about her, if they happened to be 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


457 


amusing, all.hough this would certainly be a fault ; and the 
same may be said, even more strongly, with regard to those 
who have spiritual power — bishops, clergymen in general. It 
is a very serious evil when persons indulge in irreverence of the 
kind. They will not take advice from those whom they have 
been accustomed to ridicule ; and as your words should be 
reverent, so should your manner be also,’ added Mr Clifford, 
laying a particular stress, upon the sentence, a stress which 
Alice could not but interpret, from the consciousness of her 
own sulkiness at that very time. ‘ Even so far you would re- 
quire very constant watchfulness to keep you right, I suspect,’ 
he continued. 

Alice assented, though she could not bring herself to make a 
remark of her own. 

‘ There are other duties, seemingly easier ones,’ pursued Mr 
Clifford, ‘ which the love of our neighbour requires ; but even 
these are not so easy as we are apt to imagine. We may be 
kind-hearted and amiable ; but it will be difficult never, under 
any provocation, to hurt any one, by a cross look or a cross 
word ; and we may have no temptation to be dishonest, but it 
will require care never to take an unfair advantage of other 
persons’ ignorance ; never to profit at their expense ; always to 
pay strictly what is due from us, whether it is asked for or not. 
Temptations of this kind come upon us when we are not pre- 
pared, and in a great many shapes. So, again, with regard to 
malice and hatred : they are such harsh terms, that at first 
sight we are apt to think they cannot possibly apply to us ; but 
a really earnest Christian knows that even a wish for revenge is 
forbidden by them.’ 

Mr Clifford paused, and Alice said — 

‘ No one is so very good ; no one can be.’ 

‘ Yet even now our Christian duties are not at an end,’ con- 
tinued Mr Clifford. ‘ There must be no attempt, in any way, 
to appropriate, to ourselves what is not justly our due ; no care- 
less speaking ; no unkind amusing stories repeated ; no censure 
upon others pronounced when not called for ; no giving persons 
credit for low motives ; no pleasure in hearing evil reports ; 
and no encouragement given to those who are clever in turning 
others into ridicule. So also there must be exact truth in all 
our conversation ; no exaggeration ; no pretence of knowing 
what we are ignorant of. There must be strict watchfulness 
and self-denial in such common things as eating and drinking, 


453 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


especially at the appointed times. We must always consider 
the pleasure and the needs of others before our own ; and 
never indulge in wishes for luxuries. Then again, with regard to 
purity and simplicity of heart ; if you once determine to dedi- 
cate yourself to God’s service you must not allow an imagination 
of evil to rest in your mind for a single instant. You must 
never be curious to hear or read tales of scandal ; if they are 
told you, you must turn from them, though you may be never 
so deeply interested in them ; and when such things are brought 
before you in books, you must never let your thoughts dwell 
upon them ; you must never, indeed, read books that you know 
have such tendencies.’ 

Alice remembered a certain practice which she had lately 
allowed herself, of studying the newspaper when Lady Catha- 
rine was not in the room, without any regard to the subjects 
mentioned in it. She had done so from mere idle curiosity ; 
but Mr Clifford’s warning was not heard without a pang of 
self-reproach. 

‘ And beyond all, Alice,’ he continued, ‘ you must keep a 
guard over your heart, lest it should lead you to desire riches, 
or rank, or advantages which God has not given you. You 
must work diligently, if not to gain your own daily bread — 
which has been mercifully provided for you — at least to assist 
others in gaining theirs, by teaching the ignorant and helping 
those who are in need ; and you must submit your will so en- 
tirely to the will of God, that whatever may be your condition 
in life, whatever your trials, you may never feel a momentary 
discontent, nor utter a word of repining. Now,’ he added, 
‘ we have gone through one half of a Christian’s duties, and that 
half the least difficult.’ 

‘ Then I am sure I had better not be confirmed,’ exclaimed 
Alice ; ‘ for I shall never perform a quarter of them.’ 

‘ Seriously — you think so ? ’ inquired Mr Clifford. 

‘Yes, I had better not. I should only make a false pro- 
mise.’ 

‘ Well, then, we will consider that your mind is made up upon 
the subject ; in what condition will you be then ? ’ 

‘Not worse than I was before,’ said Alice, in a tone of per- 
verseness. 

‘ Nay, that can hardly be. To refuse to be confirmed is to 
refuse the vow of allegiance to God. It is saying that, although 
you were made his child at baptism, you do not wish to remain 


LANE TON PARSONAGE.- 


459 


so now that you are grown up. Alice, if you are not a child of 
God, whose child are you 1 ’ Mr Clifford’s voice was so solemn 
that Alice trembled. ‘ Indeed, indeed, Alice,’ he continued, ‘ it 
is a fearful mistake w'e make when we imagine that we can' in 
such a case be as we were before. There is no neutral ground 
upon which we may stand. There is no middle world between 
heaven and hell ! the children of God are the heirs of heaven, 
and the children of God only.’ 

Alice burst into tears. 

‘ I would speak to you in gentler terms if I dared, my dear 
Alice,’ continued Mr Clifford, taking her hand kindly : ‘ but I 
am a minister of God ; your soul has been entrusted to my 
charge ; the wavering state of your mind is one full of danger, 
and I must warn you.’ 

‘ But it is impossible. I can never do what is required,’ 
exclaimed Alice, and she rested her forehead upon her hand 
and sobbed. 

‘ Alice,’ said Mr Clifford, ‘ I have placed the strictness of 
religion before you, because I believed you had never properly 
considered it. Once resolve to strive after it ; once let me see 
that you have a hearty will, and I should speak very differently.’ 

‘ To will what I can never do,’ said Alice. 

‘ Imagine yourself in a different position,’ replied Mr Clifford. 
■' Fancy yourself giving directions to a child. When you formed 
your rules, you would know they could not perfectly be kept ; 
yet that would not prevent you from making them. You would 
not, for instance, say to a child, “ I will allow you to be a little 
])assionate ; to be deceitful perhaps twice in the day. You shall 
only be required to be obedient at certain hours.” ’ 

Alice smiled a little. 

‘ You would require it to be good,’ said Mr Clifford ; ^ good- 
ness meaning not the never doing wrong, but the steadfast 
determination to try always to do right. God is our Father, 
Alice ; we are his children. He gives us a perfect law. He 
asks of us what we would ask of a child — when our promise is 
made and kept, He accepts us and rewards us ; if we break it 
and repent. He pardons us ; when we strive ever so feebly. He 
blesses us, and helps us to strive more ; and because it is 
absolutely impossible that by any obedience of our own we could 
ever deserve heaven. He assures us that if we will only trust and 
love Him, He will one day bring us there for the sake of Him 
who has borne the punishment which was our due. Alice, can 
you still refuse to own yourself God’s child ? ’ 


460 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


‘ I wish — I wish/ began Alice. * ’ 

‘ Then, my dear Alice, turn your wish into a prayer.^ 

‘ I always do pray,’ said Alice, in a tone of self-defence. 

‘ That is, you always say your prayers morning and evening. 
What I mean is something far beyond — prayer constantly from 
the heart.’ 

‘ I never know how,’ said Alice, ^ and I should go on just the 
same. I never could keep on being good.’ 

‘ Alice, in pity to yourself, do not say that ; it is a miserable 
persuasion to begin life with.’ 

‘It is true — it is quite true,’ exclaimed Alice, passionately. 
‘ I thought I might be better when I was confirmed, and now 
you will not let me be.’ 

‘ No,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ I have never said you should not 
be confirmed. I have merely doubted whether you were fit for it 
in your present state of mind. Once let me see that you are in 
earnest, and it would not give me more pleasure to hear my own 
children renew the promises of their baptism, than it would to 
hear you. You little know how deeply I am interested for you.’ 

Alice folded her hands, and a look of settled despondency 
rested on her features. 

‘ Prayer,’ said Mr Clifford — ‘ that is your great hope — prayer 
constantly.’ 

And again Alice said, ‘ I have prayed.’ 

‘ And you despair 1 ’ said Mr Clifford. 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘ Then listen to me once more. There are solemn duties 
before you ; you think them beyond you — have you never per- 
formed them at all 1 ’ 

‘ Never,’ said Alice. ‘ I was never good.’ 

‘ Think,’ he continued. ‘ You own that you have duties ; if 
you were thoroughly wicked you would not see them. More 
. than that, you have a wish to do right ; the wish is a special 
gift of God. You say your prayers — let them be never so cold 
and formal, still the habit is a good one; it shows that you do 
not desire to throw off religion. You admire those who are good ; 
persons for whom there is no hope, scoff at goodness. You are will- 
ing to be confirmed, because you are told to be so ; that at least is 
an obedient spirit. We will sum up these points. God, then, has 

given you a wish to serve Him — a habit of outward religion a 

heart to admire goodness — a spirit of obedience to a certain 
extent. These are the germs of the holiness of a saint ; they 
want but one thinii more, and they may lead to it.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 461 

Mr Clifford paused, and Alice slowly raised her eyes to his, 
and listened with breathless attention. 

‘ They want the will to make them so,^ he added. ‘ All that 
we ask in prayer, believing, we shall have. Ask for the will 
and it will be granted you. Ask it especially now, at this 
season ; it may be the turning-point of your life. Once gone, 
it may never return. There are two roads before you : one is 
the broad road that leadeth to destruction, the other is the 
narrow way that leadeth unto life. Alice, it was the narrow 
way which your mother chose ; she travelled it in weariness 
and pain ; she is resting now in the home of peace in which it 
ends.^ 

Alice averted her face. She would fain have continued to 
appear indifferent, but it was impossible. 

^ You can follow,^ continued Mr Clifford. 

Alice shook her head. 

‘ You can follow,’ he repeated. ‘ You have trusted to your- 
self and you have failed. Trust to your Saviour, and you must 
succeed.’ 

‘Never; it is so hard,’ persisted Alice; but her tone was 
more yielding. 

‘ Hard and impossible by nature ; yet our Lord says that 
His yoke is easy and His burden light. His words must be 
tme.’ 

‘ Yes, for others.’ 

‘ For you and every one. Pray for the will to ser\’'e Him 
and He will give it you ; and with the will He will also grant 
the power. He will grant it especially at your confirmation ; 
only be in earnest, and it is impossible that you should be 
disappointed.’ 

Alice looked up in doubt. ‘ But I must wait for confirma- 
tion ? ’ she said. 

‘ You shall think upon the subject by yourself, and tell me 
your oivn wishes another day,’ replied Mr Clifford. ‘ I would 
rather give no decision at present.’ 

He rose to return home. Alice put her arm within his, and, 
£S if by mutual consent, they walked on in silence. 


462 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

J USTINE LE VERGNIER’S character, since the time of 
her dismissal from the society of Mrs Carter’s school, had 
been rapidly forming, and at the age of seventeen she possessed 
the decision and determination of many a woman of five-and- 
twenty. She had been thrown upon her own resources, and forced 
in many instances to act independently ; and, however indif- 
ferent she might profess herself to be, as to the turn which 
events might take, she had in fact fully made up her mind with 
regard to her own course, and was determined to pursue it at 
all hazards. 

Justine had no intention of remaining a governess all her life. 
She had formed schemes for a much more brilliant, and, as it 
appeared to her, a happier lot. Justine had friends, or, more pro- 
perly speaking, intimate acquaintances, thoughtless and unprin- 
cipled, whose society she had encouraged against the advice of 
her father and Mrs Carter. They had led her into dissimulation, 
and great neglect of duty whilst she was in her former situation, 
and this being discovered, caused her dismissal. Still Justine 
would not give them up. She believed that her intercourse with 
them would at last end in her being married and settled inde- 
pendently ; and notwithstanding the grave warnings of Mrs 
Carter, and the urgent entreaties of her father, she still con- 
tinued a correspondence, and took every opportunity of seeing 
them. These friends were now in France ; they would pro- 
bably remain there a long time. It was possible even that they 
might not return. When Justine learned this, her resolution to 
follow them was at once taken. This was the clue to all she 
was now doing — her reason for thrusting herself upon the notice 
of Florence Trevelyan, insinuating herself into her friendship, 
and making such efforts to obtain the situation of governess in 
Mrs De Lacy’s family. It was for her own convenience. Mrs 
De Lacy was a weak-minded, good-natured person. Florence 
was very like her. They were going to France, and the oppor- 
tunity of accompanying them was advantageous to Justine’s plans. 
Her expenses would be paid, she would have but little to do, 
and by exercising the influence over Florence which she already 
possessed, she might, it seemed, without difficulty, engage her 
in assisting her further views. All this was scheming, low- 
minded, and utterly without a thought of duty. Justine was 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


463 


young to have been led so far astray ; but the progress of evil 
is fearfully swift when it is begun early ; and Justine had pur- 
sued a course of self-education, which is sure to be destructive 
of all right moral principle. She had read, heard, and thought 
of evil, till she had almost ceased to know that it was evil. 
The day-dreams ■ in which Alice was once described as in- 
dulging were the constant occupation of Justine’s thoughts. 
She lived in a gay but sinful world of her own creating. In 
the midst of apparent occupation, she was still busy with her 
own fancies ; and in hours of leisure she fed her imagination 
with books of the most pernicious kind. Justine’s reading was 
indiscriminate. It mattered not what was the nature of the 
novels — however offensive to right feeling and good taste might 
be the scenes described — if they were only exciting, told in 
powerful language, and rousing deep interest, Justine was satis- 
fied. She read them eagerly, thought of them, dreamt of them, 
and often supposed herself acting a principal part in the wicked- 
ness (for it was wickedness, however it might be disguised) 
which had been delineated in the characters of others. Is 
Justine’s case singular .? 

It was fortunate for Florence Trevelyan that these schemes 
were too important to be entrusted to her. Justine, indeed, 
made use of her, but she took care not to let her see that she 
did so. Such companionship, however, did Florence a great 
deal of harm. It taught her to speak lightly of things which 
w’ere in themselves most sinful. It accustomed her to look 
upon evil as a matter of course ; to suppose that all persons 
were alike, though some might appear better than others. 
Florence was not insensible to the influence of good, but Jus- 
tine was teaching her to distrust its existence. She was so 
clever in detecting faults, and had such an amusing way of 
turning virtues into ridicule, that Florence could not but listen 
to and believe her. 

‘ So you have had no answer from Mrs Clifford,’ said Justine, 
as she and Florence walked up and down the veranda together, 
a few days after the invitation to the picnic had been sent. 

‘ There was no occasion for one,’ replied Florence ; ‘ the en- 
gagement was made before, and my aunt merely wrote to fix 
the day. It is to be her party, in fact, though it is called a 
picnic.’ 

‘ And there will be — how many ? ’ asked Justine. 

Florence ran over a long list of names, ending with, ^ It will 


464 LANETON PARSONAGE. 

be charming if we have only fine weather, and if Ruth will not 
be crotchety.’ 

‘ What is that you call it said Justine ; Mt is a good word, 
just the word for Ruth. Crotchet — crooked that means, doesn’t 
it ; troublesome ? that is exactly like her. But I am not much 
afraid of her.’ 

‘ I never can understand you when you are speaking of 
Ruth,’ said Florence. ‘ You used to say how good she was.’ 

‘ Good ! oh yes ! every one is good.’ 

‘ Nonsense, Justine, you don’t mean that.’ 

‘ Yes, every one is good when it suits.’ 

Florence looked shocked. 

‘ Now, not such a face as that, mignonne,’ said Justine, play- 
fully. ‘ You know I don’t mean to talk scandal. Ruth is a 
paragon, but it is not for nothing ; do you see ’ 

‘ No, I don’t see at all,’ said Florence shortly. ‘ I always 
admired Ruth.’ 

‘ Ah ! to be sure. Admire her if you will ; dress her up, call 
her a queen, put on her a crown ; but then, mark me ’ — Justine 
held up her finger with an arch smile — ‘ Ruth likes the crown.’ 

‘Well ! so we all should,’ observed Florence. 

‘ Of course, so we all should ; I said it. You and I talk, 
sing, and play to Mrs De Lacy ; we are patterns ; very sweet, 
very good-natured — she calls us angels. Then she takes us to 
France : we are content. Ruth says prayers, and reads ser- 
mons ; she teaches dirty children, and cuts out baby frocks, 
and all the time she looks so ’ — and Justine folded her hands, 
and put on an absurd, demure face, at which Florence burst 
into a fit of laughter ; ‘ then people say. Ah ! she is a saint ! 
Miss Ruth, she is so good. Ruth knows she is praised ; that 
is for her like going to France ; she is content.’ Florence still 
laughed. 

‘ It is true ; now say so,’ continued Justine. 

‘ True ! yes, perhaps. I wish you would not look so absurd,’ 
exclaimed Florence. ‘ But we have forgotten one thing all this 
time; if you are to go to the picnic with us we shall meet Mrs 
Clifford and Madeline as well as Ruth, and then what is to 
become of us ?’ 

‘ Nay, we are safe from Mrs Clifford and Lady Catharine too, 
Mrs Carter was kind enough in one way; she never told more 
tales than she could help; so they will not think about me if 
Ruth is silent.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. • 465 

* But if we were sure of that/ said Florence^ — ‘ there is 
Madeline.’ 

‘Ah! but I always took it for granted that “la petite” had 
no will of her own. If we gained Ruth I thought there was no 
danger.’ 

‘ That was if Ruth was quite firm in our cause ; but she is 
not. She says in her letter that she does not mean to keep her 
promise, and that I had much better break off all acquaintance 
with you ; — as if I should do such a thing ! ’ 

‘ As if you would do such a thing indeed !’ repeated Justine, 
caressingly. 

‘ But,’ continued Florence, ‘we must think about this. I don’t 
feel at all sure that you will not be obliged to stay at home. I 
should not have cared about Lady Catharine and Mrs Clifford 
any more than you, if Ruth and Madeline had been friends 
with us; but I doubt very much now whether it will do to run 
the risk.’ 

‘ Mais pourquoi?’ inquired Justine. ‘If we come over Ruth 
that will be all. Madeline is a nobody.’ 

‘ Hem ! ’ said Florence. ‘ Madeline has queer ways of her 
own.’ 

‘ But she is so simple, so good-natured.’ 

Florence still looked doubtful'. ‘Just remember one thing, 
Justine,’ she said; ‘at school do you recollect that little 
business about the brooch ? ’ 

‘ Ah, oui, assurdment ; but what then ? She was a baby ; 
she did not know any better.’ 

‘ I would not answer for her,’ said Florence. ‘ Madeline 
won’t be come over.’ 

‘ Trust me,’ said Justine, ‘ I would turn her. You laugh ; 
but I would — I would turn her round my little finger.’ 

‘ How^?’ inquired Florence. 

‘ I would talk of good-nature ; of being kind. I would beg 
her, as she loved me, not to mention Mrs Carter. There are a 
hundred ways.’ 

‘ You may try; but I doubt.’ 

‘ Then you think her better than Ruth?’ said Justine. 

‘ No, I don’t; at least I never think about her. I only know 
what Alice said.’ 

‘ Alice I what was that ? 

‘ When I first mentioned you to Alice, I asked her whether 
she thought Ruth and Madeline would keep the secret.’ 

2 G 


466 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


* Well?’ exclaimed Justine, impatiently. 

‘ Alice thought Ruth would,’ continued Florence. ^ She said 
that Ruth always listened to reason ; but she had a doubt about 
Madeline, because Madeline never cared for reason.’ 

‘Ah! quelle foliei’ exclaimed Justine. ‘I hoped she had 
been wiser.’ 

‘ No, she is not. Alice says she is even worse than when 
she left school. If you remember, she had a way then of 
turning away when one talked to her. I don’t know what it is in 
her, but she never seems to care for what other people care for.’ 

‘ Not for being a queen, like that sober Ruth?’ said Justine, 
laughing. 

‘ No, one never could make her care; it was all the same 
who went before her. If Ruth and she were put down in the 
classes, Ruth used to stalk down to the bottom with such an 
air ! I have often laughed to see her; but Madeline took it all 
quite quietly.’ 

‘ That has nothing to do with the picnic,’ observed Justine. 

‘ Yes, it has, somehow — I forget what I meant exactly — but 
it had something to do with it. Oh I I remember. Don’t you 
see that there is no coming over Madeline, because she is so 
stupid?’ 

‘ Then she will do as Ruth tells her ; she will not think 
for herself.’ 

‘ I doubt ; Maddy is obstinate. The day we first met her at 
the church, she would insist upon having her own way about 
not coming here — and she had it too. She did not come into 
the house.’ 

‘ Happily for me,’ said Justine. 

‘ Yes, happily for you ; but if she sees you now at the picnic, 
it will not be happily for you or for me either.’ 

Justine shrugged her shoulders. ‘ Bien ! we will hope — I 
don’t fear.’ 

‘ But if you were to stay away,’ suggested Florence, timidly. 

‘ After the picnic there will be no danger. My aunt said 
yesterday, she meant to set off in a very few days.’ 

Justine’s lively face assumed rather a melancholy expression 
at the proposal. Whether she would have agreed to it or not 
is uncertain ; for just then the question was set at rest by the 
appearance of Mrs De Lacy, with the intelligence that Mrs 
Clifford and Ruth intended to join the party to St Cuthbert’s ; 
but. that, for some unexplained reason, Madeline would remain 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


467 


at home. Justine ‘clapped her hands in glee when she and 
Florence were again left together, and began dancing round the 
room, singing a French song, and stopping at intervals 'to de- 
clare that she was born under a fortunate star — she was always 
sure of getting out of difficulties — she was certain all would go 
just as they wished. Care ! there was no such thing as care. 
Florence had seldom seen her in such high spirits. The mirth 
was infectious ; it caught Mrs De Lacy’s ears, and she returned 
to the drawing-room. Justine exerted herself more and more 
to be agreeable, and Mrs De'^^Lacy, fascinated by her agreeable 
manners and quick talent, came to the conclusion, before the 
day was over, that she would no longer hesitate to engage Jus- 
tine de Vergnier, to be a companion for herself and a governess 
for her child. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


LICE returned to the Manor, after her evening walk with 



Mr Clifford, in a different frame of mind from that in 
which she had left it. She was subdued, saddened ; pride and 
resentment were no longer striving in the same degree for the 
mastery over her better feelings. Alice was, as Mr Clifford had 
described her when speaking to Lady Catharine, candid ; and 
this candour was the groundwork of much good. Whilst Mr 
Clifford was talking, she was indeed cold, and now and then 
even repulsive in her manner ; but his words sank into her 
heart, and she owned their truth. Still Alice did not condemn 
herself without casting some reproach upon others. She thought 
of her school-days, and remembered her evil companions — her 
errors might in some degree be attributed to them ; and now — 
Alice was fully occupied in dwelling upon this ‘ now,’ as she 
walked home from the Parsonage, followed by the butler, who 
had been sent to take care of her. Now, there were many 
things to try her ; many circumstances to render her duties 
disagreeable and discouraging. The duties in themselves 
might be easy to others, but they could never, she imagined, be 
so to her. 

These thoughts were crowding upon her mind as she passed 
the lodge gate, and entered the avenue. The house, at its ex- 
tremity, looked cheerless in the bright moonlight, for the win- 


468 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


dows appeared like so many closed eyes, and there were no 
lights to be seen, except from a small pantry window, crossed 
with iron bars. Alice's heart sank as she drew near. The 
Parsonage, notwithstanding its low rooms and worn furniture, 
possessed infinitely greater charms in her eyes than the hand- 
some Manor House, whilst the pride she had once felt in her posi- 
tion, as Lady Catharine’s adopted child, and the expectation of 
an ample, if not a large fortune, was fast melting away under the 
influence of daily vexations. Alice was not altogether to blame 
in these feelings. God does not see fit to give us all the same 
blessings in our youth. Many He places in homes where they 
find little sympathy and great trials. It is not true that child- 
hood and youth are always the happiest seasons of life. Alice 
Lennox had much to bear. Her warm affections were frequently 
chilled ; her freedom was checked ; the natural impulses of her 
age and disposition were thwarted. She was like a bird con- 
fined in a cage, and fluttering vainly against the wares, in the 
longing desire to escape. 

The desire was not in itself wrong ; and this was Alice’s 
temptation and her difficulty. She w^alked on slowly, unwilling 
to reach the grave old Manor House, associated as it was with 
ideas of constraint, ccldness, and formality, and feeling herself 
depressed even to tears. Now and then she stopped to watch 
the effects of the pale, gleaming light upon the trunks, and 
beneath the branches of the beech-trees in the avenue ; or bent 
down to look at a glow-worm shining from amongst the moss 
and turf. She w’as free then — free till she had passed the 
heavy barred door, which at that moment seemed the entrance 
to a prison. Why — the thought crossed her mind with a sharp 
pang — why could she not remain so ? The answer, or at least 
the thought which could have satisfied her, might have been 
suggested at that moment, if Alice had had the heart and the 
understanding to discover it. As she pursued her way, the 
moon passed from behind a cloud, and shed a flood of light 
upon her path. Alice’s eye was attracted by it, she looked up 
to the sky, studded with myriads of stars ; a few dark shadows 
were passing across it, edged with silver by the moonbeams, 
but they were no barrier. She could pass beyond them, 
and rest her glance upon worlds more distant' than imagina- 
tion could realise. Infinity was above her, boundless space 
around her; but she was not free to travel through it. She was 
placed upon a speck in the universe, born into one small world. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


469 

kept a prisoner in a corner of that world ; she was constantly 
reminded that it was not in her power to do all she wished, by 
the feeling of fatigue, by weather, by events over which she had 
no control, by the very formation of her body ; yet it had never 
entered Alice’s mind to murmur because she was a human 
being. As she was formed, so she was contented to remain. 
God’s will was her will in these things — at least she had never 
thought of rebelling against it. She never strove to be free ; to 
fly through the air, or walk upon the water; and therefore she 
was not fretted by the impossibility. When we have learned 
this same lesson in our several positions in life ; when God’s 
will has become our will, so that we have no wish beyond our 
station; no desire to escape from the trials He sends; no 
longings but for the daily bread and the daily comforts which 
He in His wisdom apportions us; then we are free. 

Alice had a hard lesson to learn, but it is well to ‘ bear the 
yoke in our youth ; ’ for so we are prepared for the restraints to 
which (if we hope for happiness) we must be accustomed in 
age. 

But the door was reached. Alice stood upon the steps, and 
cast one lingering melancholy glance upon the beauty of the 
moonlight evening before she entered the hall, which was 
gloomy from its size, and the dark colour of the wainscot, not- 
withstanding the light from the large glass lamp that hung 
suspended from the ceiling. Lady Catharine, she was told, 
was in the breakfast-room; her usual sitting-room when alone. 
A disagreeable recollection of the manner in which they last 
parted came upon Alice rather suddenly. She had been dream- 
ing for the last quarter of an hour; now she was to prepare 
herself for reality. Lady Catharine was sitting with her back 
to the door reading, when Alice came in. She thought it was 
only the servant bringing an answer to some message, and she 
did not look up. Alice advanced to the table, took off her 
gloves, and untied her bonnet, before Lady Catharine raised 
her eyes. 

Then she said, ‘ Oh ! my dear, are you returned ? is it a fine 
evening ? ’ 

‘ Yes, ma’am, very.’ 

‘ You must have had a pleasant walk.^ 

Yes, ma’am, very.’ 

Did Mr Clifford come with you ?’ 

No, ma’am.’ 


470 


LANETON PARSONAGE 


A pause. Alice unpinned her shawl. 

‘ Shall I take my things off before prayers ? ^ she asked. 

‘ Yes, you had better.’ 

Alice lighted a candle and departed. When she came down 
the bell was rung; the servants assembled in the ante-room to 
the drawing-room, Lady Catharine sat down to a small table, 
and read a chapter from a large family Bible. Alice sat by 
her, with her eyes bent upon her own Bible, and her thoughts 
wandering in innumerable directions. Then followed prayers, 
then a kiss, and then separation for the night. 

Alice was very unhappy when she went to bed, from several 
causes ; Mr Clifford’s conversation. Lady Catharine’s coldness, 
and a misgiving that her troubles were not entirely independent 
of herself. But Lady Catharine was equally so ; she had ex- 
pected some advance from Alice, some allusion to the morning 
vexations, which should give an opening to the words, ‘ I 
forgive ; ’ but Alice a'ppeared insensible and forgetful. Lady 
Catharine owned the truth of a great deal which Mr Clifford 
had suggested, but it could never, she thought, be desirable to 
show cordiality unless there were some symptoms of repentance. 
She could not resolve upon what line of conduct to adopt. Mr 
Clifford’s ideas were contrary to all her early prejudices, and 
though she bore with the mention of them, as she knew they 
appeared to him to be right, she could not in a moment throw 
off her own plans and pursue his. And with Lady Catharine, 
as with Alice, there was a difficulty in the way of perceiving 
her errors, from the fact that Alice was really in fault — that 
she really was negligent and self-willed. But neither was 
Lady Catharine aware of the effect of her own manner. She 
did not mean to be chilling or formal ; but the manner had 
been allowed to grow up in youth unchecked, and now it was 
a part of her very nature. As a girl, she had been accustomed 
to say, ‘ I know I am proud ; I cannot help being reserved ; I 
daresay people think me very cold ; ’ all the time with a certain 
satisfaction in being proud, and cold, and reserved, from an 
idea that she was therefore unlike ordinary persons. No one 
had said to her that proud, cold manners were greatly to be 
lamented and struggled against ; that they were great defects, 
and symptoms of an evil nature : no one had warned her that re- 
serve, when indulged, is apt to degenerate into want of considera- 
tion for the feelings of our friends ; and that, when we shut our- 
selves up, and fancy that others cannot understand us, we too 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


4/1 


often do not take the trouble to understand them. Coldness and 
reserve are not the characteristics of a Christian. Without re- 
ference to the One Perfect Example of infinite charity, we can 
scarcely imagine St Paul repelling, when the disciples threw 
themselves upon his neck and wept, ‘ sorrowing most of all that 
they should see his face no more.^ And when St John gave 
his last touching exhortation, ‘ Little children, love one another,’ 
surely the tone and manner must have been winning even as the 
words, for they were the tone and manner of him ‘ whom Jesus 
loved.’ 

But Lady Catharine’s austerity was now almost beyond cor- 
rection. It might be softened, but there was little hope of its 
ever being eradicated. The best that could be expected was, 
that her excellent qualities, her sincerity, earnestness, and genuine 
benevolence, might exercise so great an influence as to induce 
those with whom she associated to overlook the occasional harsh- 
ness of her manner. Alice was too young, too selfish, too im- 
patient, to do this ; and, above all, she was not yet sufficiently 
humble. 

No, Alice was not really humble, even on that evening when 
she had been listening to Mr Clifford’s advice, and had been 
warned that she was not fit for confirmation. A repining spirit 
cannot be a humble one. When we have learned to know our- 
selves, we shall never murmur. Sinners by nature — helpless, 
hopeless ; offending daily and hourly, after grace given for the 
present, and boundless happiness offered for the future, what 
claim have we to any blessings t If Alice’s lot in life had been 
ten times more trying, she would still have had cause for the 
gratitude of every moment of her existence. But she could not 
see this. She fancied her conduct excused by circumstances, 
and when she reflected on all which Mr Clifford had said, her 
meditations took the form of an examination of Lady Catharine’s 
conduct, and her resolution was to be better if Lady Catharine 
would be kinder. God does not accept such resolutions. We 
must be good under any circumstances — tempted or not tempted, 
happy or not happy. 

They met at breakfast the next morning, still with constraint 
on both sides. Alice fearing and wondering whether Mr 
Clifford had positively proposed to Lady Catharine to delay her 
confirmation. Lady Catharine pondering how to break through 
the ice of Alice’s reserve. Lady Catharine began a conversation 
several times, and extracted in reply that Alice had spent a 


472 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


quiet daj- at the Parsonage, seen no one, and only walked on 
the shore. No parish news ; no remarks about the school ; no 
mention of any chance visitor. Alice was as short and correct 
in her answers as if she had been placed in a witness box. 
Lady Catharine tried another subject — Mrs De Lacy’s visit. 
Alice showed little interest in it, except by once asking for 
Florence.' Lady Catharine believed she was quite well. A 
young lady was staying with her ; that was the reason she 
had not accompanied her aunt. Then Alice’s eyes brightened, 
as if the subject was not quite indifferent to her ; but Lady 
Catharine was not quick in remarking slight variations of 
countenance. 

‘ I think Mrs De Lacy said she was French,’ continued Lady 
Catharine. ‘ I am not fond myself of intimacies with foreigners. 
They are all alike, educated frivolously.’ 

Alice could not bear this sweeping censure, and observed that 
she supposed some might be better. 

‘ That is because you don’t know them, my dear. I should 
be sorry for you to be thrown in the way of them.’ 

Alice did not venture to allude to Justine le Vergnier. 

‘ By the by,’ added Lady Catharine, ‘ it is rather strange — 

I wonder’ She finished her sentence in her own mind, 

and immediately began to finish her breakfast also; deliberately 
— she was never hurried out of her sense of propriety in all 
ihings — yet with that air of determination which shows that 
persons are not intending to spend more time upon what they 
are doing than can be avoided. On rising from the table, 
Alice was told to ring the bell, that the breakfast things might 
be removed ; to send word to the gardener that Lady Catharine 
desired to speak with him in a quarter of an hour precisely ; to 
go herself and arrange some fresh flowers in the drawing-room 
vases — a duty which Alice always performed directly after 
breakfast — then to walk on the terrace for three quarters of an 
hour, and on her re-entrance to read history for an hour, and 
write any letters which might be necessary. Also to beg Mar- 
sham to give her some articles of dress which were not in good 
repair, and which she had better mend before she finished her 
crochet bag ; also — but Lady Catharine could not remember 
any more ‘ alsos,’ though she stood thinking for several seconds. 
Alice did not stand at all. The moment Lady Catharine was 
gone she rushed away — ran up the stairs, two steps at a time 
— hurried along the gallery, and having reached her own room, 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


473 


slammed the door, bolted it, and walked up and down in a 
state of fretful irritation. It was unfortunate that Alice had no 
one to remind her — that she had not the sense to remind her- 
self — of the fact that the duties imposed upon her were very- 
simple and easily performed ; that if she had been left to her- 
self, she could scarcely have portioned out her morning better, 
the sole fault to be found with the arrangement being that it 
had been made for her instead of by her. Alice had only to 
subdue her own will, and all discomfort would have been at an 
end. The duties, however, must, she knew, be performed ; and 
so they were. A short time afterwards, as she returned to her 
room laden with flowers for the drawing-room vases, she found 
Lady Catharine there. Alice’s mind was still in a storm. 
Lady Catharine was only quietly grave ; as least such was her 
tone of voice when she said — 

‘ Were you aware, Alice, that Miss Trevelyan had a friend 
staying with her ?’ 

Alice replied that she had heard so. 

‘ You cannot have seen her,’ said Lady Catharine ; ‘ but have 
you any idea where she comes from ? ’ 

‘ I am not sure where she lives,’ said Alice, whilst, sorely 
against her wishes, the colour rose in her cheeks. 

‘ Mrs De Lacy did not give her name,’ said Lady Catharine, 
‘ and you say you have not heard it ? ’ 

A sudden jerk of Alice’s elbow threw down the jug of water 
which stood upon the table, and in the confusion which this 
occasioned she escaped answering the question. 

‘ I daresay you will wonder why I ask,’ continued Lady 
Catharine, with something more of ease ; ‘ but I have received 
a particular caution from Mrs Carter against your renewing an 
acquaintance with that Mademoiselle Le Vergnier, whom you 
knew at school. She has a very bad opinion of her. It was 
not worth while to mention this before; but hearing of Miss 
Trevelyan’s friend made me think it possible that she might be 
the same person. Miss Trevelyan would of course have told 
you if she had been ? ’ 

Alice was silent ; but the pang of conscience which she en- 
dured was almost intolerable. 

‘ I wonder I did not think of asking Mrs De Lacy more about 
her,’ said Lady Catharine, speaking to herself ; ‘but’ (and she 
sighed) ‘ I was occupied with other things. Well, my dear, there 
is no occasion to keep you any longer doing nothing” — for Alice 


474 


LANETON EARSONAGE, 


had not yet begun to dress the flowers — ^ I merely wished to say 
to you that if Miss Trevelyan should ever offer to introduce you 
again to that Mademoiselle Le Vergnier, you must remember 
that both Mrs Carter and I entirely disapprove of the acquaint- 
ance, You would, however, of course, tell me directly. And, 
Alice, I am not particularly desirous of your becoming a great 
friend of Miss Trevelyan’s. Mrs Carter’s account does not en- 
tirely please me. By and by we will have some of your real 
friends here.’ After the confirmation — Lady Catharine was 
going to add, but she was checked by a painful remembrance, 
and turning from the subject abruptly, she said, ‘ You walked 
on the shore last night, my dear ; was Mr Clifford with you ?’ 

^ Yes, ma’am, part of the time.’ 

‘ Did he appear in good spirits .?’ 

Alice looked surprised, and answered, ‘ Yes, ma’am, much 
the same as usual,’ 

Lady Catharine seemed inclined to do what for her was very 
unnatural — to linger in the room without any apparent motive. 
Alice began arranging the flowers. 

‘ Did Mr Clifford walk with you?’ said Lady Catharine, in 
the same sudden manner, and forgetting that she had put a 
similar question only a few moments before. 

* Yes, ma’am.’ 

< But with- you — with you alone ?’ 

‘We sat some time on the shore together,’ said Alice, colouring. 

‘ That was what I meant. Had he any opportunity of speak- 
ing to you by yourself?’ 

‘ We talked,’ replied Alice, the slight tinge which had flushed 
her face becoming a deep crimson. 

‘ I see,’ continued Lady Catharine, looking steadily at her, 
‘ Mr Clifford has said to you what he said to me. Alice, can 
you imagine how grieved I am ?’ 

Alice’s heart swelled for an instant with pride, but the tone 
and the word ‘ grieved^’ softened her. 

‘ Mr Clifford did not tell me exactly — he did not say I must 
not go,’ she replied, speaking in a low voice, and in her ner- 
vousness undoing all her work, and scattering the flowers upon 
the table. 

For once Lady Catharine omitted to notice her awkwardness. 
‘ But he must have told you,’ she said, ‘ that he had doubts 
upon the subject ; and in such cases a doubt is almost equal to 
a certainty.’ 


ANETON PARSONAGE. 


475 


Alice did not see this. She replied coldly, that if Lady 
Catharine and Mr Clifford both thought it better not, she sup- 
posed it would be so. 

This answer apparently perplexed Lady Catharine. 

‘ And is your confirmation then a matter of indifference to 
you, Alice.?’ she asked. 

‘ I wish to go,’ replied Alice, speaking in the same manner. 

Lady Catharine seized upon the word ‘wish,’ and said 
eagerly, ‘ If you wished, all would be right. Did you tell Mr 
Clifford this .?’ 

‘ Yes.’ 

Silence followed. Lady Catharine stood before the picture 
of Mrs Lennox, and as she looked upon it, tears gathered in. 
lier cold, gray eyes, but they went no further. Before Alice, in 
her present mood, she would have felt it humiliation to betray 
any weakness. Alice glanced at her from time to time. The 
work in which she was engaged made no progress ; the flowers 
were altered again and again, and the stems cut and re-cut, 
whilst her thoughts were wandering to her mother and Lady 
Catharine’s affection for her, and conscience was bitterly up- 
braiding her for her deception about Justine. One word of 
gentleness, and the barrier of her pride might have been broken 
down ; but it did not come. They had met coldly — they 
parted coldly. Lady Catharine went to her room without utter- 
ing another word, and Alice set about her morning’s work, 
with no interest in it beyond that of merely passing away a few 
heavy hours, and preventing herself from thinking that she had 
practically told- an untruth. Time did pass away, and Alice, 
if she had thought at all, might have been grateful to Lady 
Catharine for giving her so much to do. The luncheon bell 
rang, and she was surprised that the morning had gone so 
quickly. It would have been more agreeable to her to escape 
luncheon altogether ; but this was not practicable, and it 
proved less unpleasant than she had anticipated. Lady Catha- 
rine also had been occupied, and in her occupation found less 
leisure to think about Alice. She brought forward a topic for 
conversation which was tolerably free. from unpleasant associa- 
tions ; but Alice could not be cheerful. She could overlook 
her ordinary faults ; but the miserable deception of which she 
had been guilty was a weight not to be shaken off. She was 
thoroughly ashamed of it — more ashamed perhaps than peni- 
tent, and could only relieve her mind by thinkirg that she 


476 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


should, in the course of the afternoon, have an opportunity of 
telling Ruth, as there was a quarterly examination at the school, 
to which she was going with Lady Catharine, and where Ruth 
would certainly be present. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

M uch to the disappointment of Alice, Madeline was at 
the school instead of her sister A headache kept 
Ruth at home, and Madeline was obliged to take her place. 
The afternoon was very warm, and the heat soon became op- 
pressive. After a short time Lady Catharine declared herself 
unable to bear it any longer ; and, leaving Alice with Mr Clif- 
ford, she went home. The departure was satisfactory to Alice, 
who took a part in the examination of one of the classes, and 
received Mr Clifford’s thanks and approval. At any other time 
this circumstance would have raised her spirits ; for such 
praises were rarely given ; but, when they were, they were 
given heartily. Praise and sympathy went together, and the 
latter made the former ten times more valuable. Mr Clifford’s 
manner of thanking Alice had also a peculiar meaning in it. Alice 
understood that he was thinking of what had passed between 
them the day before, and was pleased to find that in one duty, 
and that an important one, she had not been remiss. 

When the school was dismissed, Madeline congratulated 
Alice, and begged her, if possible, to come back with her to 
the Parsonage. Ruth would be delighted, she said, to know 
that she had been praised by her papa — he was so very par- 
ticular ; and her mamma also would be very glad ; it was only 
a few days before that she had been saying how regular Alice 
was in going 'to the school, and that she was a good example 
to them. 

Alice scarcely smiled, though she agreed to return to the 
Parsonage, hoping that she might be able to have a little con- 
versation with Ruth before the dinner hour at the Manor. 

The distance from the school to the Parsonage was but short ; 
but it was lengthened now by Madeline’s proposing that they 
should cross some fields to take a message to a cottager for 
her papa. 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE, 


477 


Alice made no objection, though she was looking forward to 
seeing Ruth, as the only hope of relieving her burdened mind. 

Madeline was by this time pretty well accustomed to 
Alice’s temper, but her silence on the present occasion certainly 
puzzled her. She who valued her papa’s praises so much, 
imagined of course that Alice must be happy when she had 
received them. Madeline had felt rather lonely the last few 
days ; Ruth was grown strangely reserved ; her papa had been 
more thoughtful than usual, and now Alice was what she called in 
a ‘ mood.’ There was one person, however, whom nothing 
seemed to alter ; and when Madeline caught sight of her 
mamma standing at the cottage door as they came up, she ran 
up to her with delight. 

Madeline went into the cottage, and Mrs Clifford and Alice 
remained together. The coldest person must have been struck 
by Mrs Clifford’s manner ; so affectionate and sympathising, and 
full of consideration. Even when she merely asked whether Alice 
was going to the Parsonage, she contrived to give an interest to 
her words. The simple question was not put as a matter of 
course, it evidently implied that she wished her to go. The 

charm of Mrs Clifford’s character consisted not only in the 

absence of all selfishness, but in the power of throwing herself, 
as it were, into the minds of those with whom she held inter- 
course ; seeing with their eyes, hearing with their ears, and, in 
consequence, giving real sympathy in cases where it would seem 
she could not naturally be at all concerned. 

Mrs Clifford had taught herself this habit of mind. She was 
indeed born with an affectionate, gentle temper, but she had 
improved it by watchfulness. One command given in the Bible 
made a great impression upon her when she was quite young. 
It was St Paul’s exhortation to the Romans to ‘rejoice with 

them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.’ She 

heard sympathy generally spoken of as a gift, or disposition of 
the heart, like warmth of feeling ; but she perceived that this 
was not St Paul’s view of it. If it could not be attained by 
practice, it would not be commanded. Mrs Clifford did prac- 
tise. She began at once, in the minute affairs of every day ; 
whether it were choosing a dress, or reading a book, or laying 
out a flower-bed \ whatever came before her, as occupying the 
attention of those she lived with, was (though not without an 
effort at first) forced to engage her attention also. Now, this 
disposition of mind was brought to bear upon really important 


473 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


subjects, and perhaps not even Mr Clifford, with his zeal, firm- 
ness, and power of mind, possessed as much influence over his 
parishioners as did his gentle wife, when she sat by their lowly 
firesides, listening to their tales of suffering, leading them to tell 
their secret trials, and at last leaving them with perhaps a very 
few words of advice, and scarcely any of reproof, but with the 
assurance so touching to us all : ‘Yes, I can quite understand; 
it must be very sad — very hard to bear ; we will think about it, 
and see if something cannot be done/ 

Mrs Clifford could and would have been a constant support 
to Alice in her home trials ; but under Alice’s peculiar circum- 
stances there was a great difficulty. If Alice was to be happy, 
Lady Catharine must be her chief object of respect and affec- 
tion. Mrs Clifford might win her affections, but this would 
only make her uncomfortable by withdrawing her interest from 
the person in whom it ought to be centred. 

It was probable, also, that Lady Catharine might be of a 
jealous disposition, especially where she had so few to love; and 
if this feeling were once roused, Alice would inevitably be 
wretched. All these considerations made Mrs Clifford veiy 
guarded in their intercourse; and yet it was impossible to 
watch Alice, and know her faults and her trials, without great pity, 
and an earnest desire to be of service to her. Many of Ruth’s 
suggestions were the result of previous conversation with her 
mamma; and often, when Mrs Clifford was busy or wearied, she. 
would exert herself to talk to her own children about Alice, 
hoping through them to do good, without awakening any irrit- 
able feeling on the part of Lady Catharine. 

Just now Mrs Clifford was peculiarly compassionate towards 
Alice. She knew what had been said regarding her confirma- 
tion, and she understood better than her husband all that Alice 
would have to bear, both from her own regret and Lady Catha- 
rine’s displeasure, if the delay was to be insisted on. It struck 
her immediately that Alice looked pale, and she inquired as ten- 
derly as if speaking to one of her own children, whether she was 
tired; adding, ‘I am afraid Mr Clifford has kept you too long 
at the school, my dear; and Madeline was foolish in bringing 
you so far round.’ 

Poor Alice’s heavy heart received an additional weight from 
these few kind words. She would not own that she was tired, 
but said she should like to go to the Parsonage and talk a little 
to Ruth. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


479 


* Do, my dear; Ruth will be delighted. You will find her in 
my dressing-room, lying on the sofa ; her head is better now.^ 

Alice looked with some impatience at the cottage-door, 
wondering that Madeline did not come out. 

‘ You are in_a hurry, are you not, my love ? You want to see 
Ruth, and go back to the Manor in time to dress for dinner. I 
will hurry Madeline ; ^ and Mrs Clifford entered the cottage. 

Alice remained at the door, not exactly listening to what was 
said, but gathering a vague impression of some more kind words 
— some further thought for the comfort of others. Mrs Clifford 
appeared more lovable than ever, and Alice longed — how 
earnestly ! how sadly ! that such a mother had been granted to 
herself. Madeline came out full of excitement at the wonderful 
recovery of a sick child, a particular favourite of hers ; and Mrs 
Clifford would not check her at first, but when her energy had 
a little subsided, she said — 

‘ Madeline, dear, you have brought Alice too far ; she is 
tired ; take her home the short way, and then leave her with 
Ruth for a little while to rest. And, Alice,’ she added, ‘ do 
you think that Lady Catharine would spare you to us again the 
day after to-morrow ? We have not seen you as often lately as 
I like.’ 

Alice was only too glad of the invitation, though a little afraid 
of another tHe-d,-tete with Mr Clifford. They were to separate 
now, as Mrs Clifford had business in a contrary direction. 
Madeline was told to order some broth for the child when she 
reached home — an order which pleased her in itself, and re- 
minded her that her mamma cared for those whom she cared 
for ; and Alice was kissed, and begged to bring a bright colour 
in her cheek the day after to-morrow, or they should have to 
prescribe for her also, 

‘ Let Ruth and Alice be quiet together, my dear Madeline,’ 
was Mrs Clifford’s last injunction ; ‘ and keep watch for Alice, 
that she may not be late in going back.’ 

‘ Are you not well, Alice ? ’ said Madeline, when her mamma 
had left them. 

‘ Yes, tolerably ; my head is aching a little, but that is all ; 
it was the heat of the school, I think. My headaches are not 
like Ruth’s.’ 

^ Ruth is quite out of spirits,’ observed Madeline ; * in that 
way she is like you. I cannot think where the spirits of both 
of you are gone.’ 


48 o LANETON parsonage, 

‘ There is nothing to give one spirits that I can see/ replied 
Alice. 

‘ Ruth is grave about the confirmation sometimes/ said 
Madeline ; ‘ but that would not make her unhappy, and really 
now and then she looks as if she could cry.’ 

‘ I am not going to the confirmation, Madeline,’ said Alice. 
This was spoken quietly, but Alice’s step was hurried. Madeline 
stopped, and looked at her in perfect incredulity. 

‘ I am not going to the confirmation,’ repeated Alice, still 
hurrying on. 

‘ Not going here, do you mean — at this place ? — Laneton ? 
Shall you be confirmed anywhere else ’ 

‘ I shall not be confirmed at all,’ continued Alice. ‘ Your 
papa says so,’ she added, with some bitterness of tone. 

‘ O Alice, how dreadful ! ’ 

Madeline did not know how to finish the sentence. 

‘ I cannot help it,’ said Alice. 

‘ But don’t you care I cannot understand you ; you seem 
quite changed.’ 

‘ I am changed,’ exclaimed Alice, passionately. ‘ I am so 
miserable ; I shall never be happy.’ 

‘ Alice, dear ! how can you talk so .? Please don’t hurry on. 
I would give anything to make you better — happier, I mean. 
Please, Alice, wait one minute for me.’ 

They had reached a stile, which divided the field from the 
premises of the Parsonage. Alice crossed it, but instead of 
going into the house, she turned into a path which led into the 
garden. Madeline followed her. They sat down together on 
a bench in the arbour, at the end of the path, and Madeline 
saw that Alice was crying bitterly. For a little time Madeline 
showed her sympathy only by manner ; but, at last, she said — 

‘ If we were to go into the house to Ruth, perhaps you would 
be able to talk to her.’ 

‘ I came on purpose,’ said Alice. ‘ I did not mean to say 
anything to you, Madeline ; I cannot think how it came out. I 
knew you would be shocked.’ 

‘ But,’ said Madeline, not liking to confess really how much 
shocked she felt, ‘ if you would explain yourself more, I should 
be very glad. I never heard anything about it before. Does 
papa really mean it .? ’ 

‘ He says it,’ replied Alice. 

‘ And does Lady Catharine consent ? ^ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


481 


^ Yes, I believe she does. Madeline’ — and Alice’s voice 
became lower, — ‘what will you think of me, when you are 
confirmed and I am not ? ’ 

‘ I shall love you always, dearly,’ said Madeline, eagerly. 

‘ But you would despise me ? ’ 

‘ Oh no, Alice, I should be very sorry ; but I am not at all 
good myself.’ 

‘ Yes, you are good,’ said Alice, decidedly. 

‘ No, indeed, indeed ; Alice, you mistake. It seems, some- 
times, as if I could never do anything I ought.’ 

‘ Sometimes !’ repeated Alice. ‘ It seems so always with me, 
and I am wretched.’ 

‘ But,’ continued Madeline, ‘ you need not be.’ 

‘ Yes, if I never grow better, I must be.’ 

‘ But persons always grow better when they say their prayers 
properly,’ said Madeline. 

‘ I always do say my prayers,’ replied Alice. 

This acknowledgment had the effect of silencing Madeline for 
a short space ; but, after a little consideration, she said — 

‘ Papa tells me I must be patient with myself.’ 

‘ He does not tell me so,’ said Alice. ‘ He declares I have 
no resolution.’ 

‘ But I don’t think papa knows,’ began Madeline — stopping, 
however, before the sentence was ended, from the fear lest it 
should be wrong to suppose her papa did not know everything ; 
— ‘ that is, I am sure, Alice, you can do more things than you 
imagine. You say you cannot draw, or play, or do a great 
many things which Ruth and 1 see you can do ; and so it may 
be with being good.’ 

‘ That does not help me,’ said Alice. 

Madeline saw that she was not giving any real comfort, and 
wished that Alice would offer to go in-doors to Ruth. 

‘What makes you good, Madeline.?’ said Alice, abruptly. 

‘ I am not good.’ 

‘ Yes, you are ; don’t say you are not. You are good; Avhat 
makes you so .?’ 

‘ I don’t know ; God makes all people good.’ 

‘ Except wicked people like me; so that is no answer. What 
makes you good .?’ 

‘ But it is the Holy Spirit,’ said Madeline, reverently, ‘ who 
gives us good thoughts; and you know, Alice, w’e are both alike. 
We have both been baptized.’ 


2 H 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


' 482 

‘ Yes; ’ and Alice began to think; ’■ and heaps of people have 
been baptized too. Why are they not all good ?’ 

‘ No one can tell/ replied Madeline ; ‘ they ought to be.^ 

‘ But they are not — why are they not?’ 

Madeline could find no answer. 

‘ Then some baptized people are good, and some are wicked,^ 
said Alice. ‘ I am one of the wicked ones ; that is why I am 
not to be confirmed.’ 

‘ You must have some very wrong notions,’ continued Made- 
line, her earnestness overcoming the timidity of her character. 
‘ We are both alike. Baptism made us alike.’ 

‘ It did not make me good,’ said Alice. 

Madeline’s face suddenly brightened. 

‘ It did not make me good,’ she replied ; ‘ but it was the be- 
ginning of giving me a power to be so ; though, Alice, you 
know I did not make the use of it I might. We were naughty 
together as children.’ 

‘Yet the difference now; how did it come?’ exclaimed 
Alice, impatiently, though with an air of thought ; for Made- 
line’s reference to the faults of her childhood had given her a 
feeling of hope for herself. Madeline did not like to answer ; 
she could not allow the difference upon which Alice so strongly 
insisted. 

‘ Tell me, Maddy — please tell me,’ said Alice. ‘ Oh ! I 
would give all the world to be good.’ 

Madeline threw her arms round her. 

‘ That must be good, Alice ; you know wishes are given us.’ 

‘ But I don’t care for wishes. What did you do ? How did 
you begin ?’ 

‘ I used to pray,’ said Madeline, ‘ but the words were uttered 
with difficulty.’ 

Alice’s face again became overcast. 

‘ Perhaps, though, you mean what little things did I do ?’ 
continued Madeline. 

‘ Yes; that is, I don’t know exactly what I mean; but some- 
thing more than saying prayers generally. One knows that to 
be right.’ 

‘ I cannot quite think what I did, when I began,’ said Made- 
line. ‘ It was a long time back, and I am always doing wrong 
now. I know I used to say prayers at school in the dressing- 
room ; that, I think, did me good — short prayers, at odd times, and 
standing up, because you know I should have been interrupted.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 483 

< Did you indeed say prayers then?' inquired Alice, with a 
look of astonishment. 

^ Yes; I don't remember what it was that put it into my head 
— I think it was something Mrs Carter said one day, about 
making good resolutions. At first I went just when I thought 
about it, and not quite every day ; but, by and by, it seemed to 
be natural to go, just as it is to say one’s prayers at night; and 
I fixed an hour — five o’clock it was, when school was over, and 
I never missed it, if I could possibly help it.' 

^ But what did you say?' inquired Alice. ^ Were you never 
interrupted? and could you think?' 

‘ I was frightened very often,' replied Madeline ; ‘ and now 
and then persons came in and sent my thoughts all away ; but 
I hoped I should be forgiven if I tried. They were prayers out 
of my own head which I began with, only a few words ;' but I 
met with one or two short ones in a book, which I liked, and 
then I used to say them ; only I altered them if I liked it — if I 
had anything particular to say.’ 

‘ Well !' said Alice, ‘go on.' 

‘ That was the beginning,' continued Madeline, ‘ and it made . 
me happier ; but I had so many faults, such a great, great 
many ; I used to try and recollect them at night, but I had not 
time ; the candles were taken away so soon.' 

‘ And I remember,' said Alice, ‘ you were always scolded for 
being in bed late.' 

‘ Yes ; it used to worry me a great deal. I could not quite 
tell what it was right to do ; at last I managed differently.’ 

‘ Differently ! how?' said Alice. 

‘ I used to divide the day,’ replied Madeline. ‘ When I went 
to the dressing-room at five o’clock, I thought about what I 
had been doing till then, and said I was sorry, in my prayers ; 
and afterwards, at bed-time, I had not so much to think about.’ 

‘ That was not dividing the day well,’ observed Alice ; ‘ it 
was too long till five o’clock.’ 

‘ No, but I could not help myself ; I could not find time be- 
fore, and I was obliged to make things suit as well as I could. 
You know I could not leave my lessons.' 

‘ And when you had found out your faults, what did you do 
next?' inquired Alice. 

‘ I knew I must try to do what was right, besides trying to 
get rid of the faults,' replied Madeline ; ‘ so I made up my mind 
to begin pleasing Mrs Carter, if I could, all day long.' 


484 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


‘ All the day ! ’ repeated Alice, with a sigh of weariness at the 
very thought of such constant exertion. 

‘ Yes ; but it was very hard. Once I remember having such 
a dreadful feeling just for a moment.’ 

Alice fixed her eyes upon her with increasing interest. 

‘ It was in our bedroom, I shall never forget it,’ said Made- 
line. ‘ I was left the last, and I wanted to go down-stairs ta 
practise, but the room was untidy, and I knew I ought to stay ; 
and I began putting it in order, and just as I thought I had 
finished, I saw- that the books on the drawers were not straight. 
It was a very little thing, but I went back to put them right, 
because Mrs Carter always liked to see them neat ; then it came 
over me, a sort of weight, the thought that I must go on all my 
life, never having any rest or peace, that there would be always 
something to be done.’ 

‘ Yes, always something,’ escaped from Alice, involuntarily. 

‘ But Alice, I don’t mean that the feeling lasted,’ exclaimed 
Madeline ; ‘ and I will tell you presently how I became a great 
deal happier.’ 

‘ But about that always trying,’ said Alice ; ‘ it must be such 
terrible hard work.’ 

‘ So it was at the beginning,’ replied Madeline ; ‘but I found 
it would not do to leave off ; I was wretched when I did, and 
after a very little time it became natural to be careful.’ 

‘ I don’t see how that could be,’ observed Alice. 

‘ It was a habit,’ said Madeline. ‘ At first I was obliged to 
think, and force myself to recollect that things were wrong ; 
such things as dawdling, and talking idly, and speaking hastily ; 
but when I had stopped myself tolerably often, I found that I 
used to check myself almost without thinking ; the notion of 
its being wrong came in an instant, without my exactly endea- 
vouring to make it come.’ 

‘ That is hard to understand,’ said Alice. 

‘ If you would begin you would know what I mean. Don’t 
you know, when we were little children, and learned to use a 
knife and fork, how careful we were obliged to be lest we should 
cut our fingers ? Well, now we never think about it ; and so it 
seems, in a way, with doing right. If one begins in being par- 
ticular in everything it becomes a habit.’ 

‘ And now about your being happier,’ said Alice. 

‘ Ah ! that was when I returned home. Papa made me hap- 
pier. He gave me notions. I think, Alice, if you could have 
them, you would never say it was hard to be good.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 485 

^ Well, but tell me; make haste, what were they?’ said 
Alice. 

* It was only one notion, really, but it did for everything,’ 
replied Madeline. was one day talking to papa; we weie 
speaking about being good, and I told him how hard I found it, 
and that sometimes I was quite tired of trying ; and he said, 
that if I would only believe that our Saviour was our Friend, 
and loved us when we tried, it would all be easy. Something 
came over me then — a curious feeling, but it made me very 
happy — as if I was not to work hard at being good like a lesson, 
but to please some one I loved ; and it was so pleasant, it made 
all the world bright — I can quite remember how light-hearted 
I felt. The minute afterwards I was obliged to leave papa, 
and go in-doors, though I wished to stay very much, but I went 
directly without waiting an instant, and it was no hardship, 
because I thought that I was doing it .to please a Friend, and 
that if I could see Him perhaps He would be smiling upon me 
as papa does when we have done anything he likes. Don’t 
you see, Alice, how nice it is to think one has to please a 
Friend ?’ 

‘ Yes, yes, indeed, if one could ! ’ exclaimed Alice. ‘ Still 
you know, Madeline, there is the old story, one never is good — • 
that is, I am not ; and then it is no use to think in that way.’ 

‘ But a Friend,’ said Madeline — and as she spoke an expres- 
sion of gladness and hope lighted up her young face — ‘ a Friend 
loves one always. When I have done wrong I am wretched 
till I think of that, and then it all comes right ; and when I say 
I am sorry, I am really very sorry, and I wish^with all my heart 
to do better.’ 

‘ But suppose you go wrong again in the same way ? ’ said 
Alice. 

‘ Still it is a Friend that one has to go to,’ replied Madeline. 
‘ Nothing ever seems to do away with that. It is as if one had 
a claim ; I don’t mean that exactly,’ she added, slightly blush- 
ing ; ‘ but don’t you know one has a sort of claim upon one’s 
relations ? one is sure they will be more kind than other people ; 
and we were all made, in a way, our Saviour’s relations when 
we were baptized.’ 

‘ Yes, I never thought about that before,’ said Alice ; ‘ not in 
the same words. Yet I don’t think I could ever get it into 
my head properly that our Saviour was our Friend.’ 

* O Alice ! not when you read the gospels ? ’ 

Alice only sighed. She read the gospels as a history with 


486 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


great reverence, but the personal application to herself had 
scarcely ever been made. Madeline had thrown a new light 
upon them, though quite unconsciously, for all that she said 
was natural to her, and a part of her every-day thoughts. 

Madeline observed Aliceas silence, and, fancying that she had 
wearied her, proposed that she should go and see about Ruth 
and her headache, adding that it was selfish to have kept Alice 
from her so long. 

Alice assented ; not that she was tired of the conversation, 
for it had given a new and happier turn to her thoughts ; but 
there were some subjects upon which Ruth only could give her 
advice. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


UTH was not looking well, yet she did not appear to 



Tv require sympathy. She was excited at seeing Alice, and 
in a great hurry that Madeline should leave them together. 
Alice thought this might be from pleasure in seeing her ; but 
Ruth’s first question when they were alone disappointed her. 
It was whether she was going to the picnic. Alice replied, ‘ Yes, 
she believed so,’ and would have gone on to speak of Florence 
and Justine ; but Ruth prevented her by saying — 

‘ Of course, Madeline has told you about herself.? ’ 

‘ Told me ! no — what ? ’ 

‘ That she is not going,’ replied Ruth, and before Alice could 
make a remark, she added, hurriedly, ‘ She thinks it better not, 
and you know she is very good.’ 

‘ But a picnic ! ’ exclaimed Alice. ‘ What possible harm can 
there be in a picnic.? People object to balls and theatres, I 
know ; but what can any one find fault with in a picnic .? ’ 

‘ Madeline only cares just now,’ said Ruth ; her tone of forced 
indifference showing that she did not intend to enter into a 
further explanation if it could be avoided. 

‘Just now — ^just now ! ’ said Alice, with a perplexed air. 

‘ Yes ; cannot you understand .? How dull you must be ! ’ 

‘ Just now ! ’ again repeated Alice. 

‘ Yes, just now, because of the confirmation.’ 

Alice became very grave, and made no remark in reply. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 487 

* What have you been doing at the school this afternoon ? ’ 
inquired Ruth. 

‘ So Madeline will not go because of the confirmation/ ob- 
served Alice, after a pause, and unheeding the question. ‘ That 
is your papa’s wish, I suppose ? ’ 

‘ No, Madeline’s alone.’ 

‘ Madeline is very much in earnest,’ remarked Alice. ‘ One 
cannot help respecting her.’ 

‘ Yes, she is a great darling. She sets a very good example,’ 
said Ruth. 

‘ It is not merely that ; other people set good examples. But 
I will tell you what I always feel about Madeline — that she 
only wishes for one thing. Other persons like their own ways 
— I like mine very much ; — but Madeline has only one way ; 
she only wants to do right.’ 

‘ I think that is true,’ said Ruth. 

‘ She has been telling me about herself,’ continued Alice ; 
‘ how she first began to be good. It seemed all very simple 
and easy. When she was talking, I thought I might be good 
myself some day.’ 

‘ You are in such a hurry,’ said Ruth. ‘ You despair in a 
moment.’ 

‘ Then I am only like your papa and Lady Catharine,’ ex- 
claimed Alice, speaking quickly, and casting her eyes upon 
the ground. ‘ They declare I am not fit to be confirmed.’ 

‘ O Alice ! ’ Ruth could say no m.ore ; she raised herself 
from her reclining posture, and regarded Alice in much astonish- 
ment, not unmixed with horror. 

‘ You may well say, “ O Alice ! ” I knew you would be 
shocked. I made up my mind so before I came ; but it is 
true. Your papa says so, and Lady Catharine ; and they think 
that I shall never come to any good.’ 

Ruth could hardly keep from a smile ; for she knew this 
must be an exaggeration. ‘ Now, Alice dear,’ she said, in a 
soothing tone, ‘ don’t fret yourself into such a fuss all in a 
moment ; just tell me quietly what you mean. Papa does not 
say that you are not to be confirmed, does he ?’ 

‘ All but,’ replied Alice ; and then, becoming calmer, she 
tried to collect her thoughts, and told Ruth, as well as she 
could remember, the substance of what had passed upon the 
subject both with Mr Clifford and Lady Catharine. 

Ruth’s judgment not being warped by personal feelings, she 


483 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


saw at once that her papa did not intend to debar Alice from 
confirmation, if only her mind could be brought into a right 
state of preparation, and when Alice had finished speaking she 
placed her own view of the case before her. Alice was not 
free from perverseness. She found rather a satisfaction in 
believing that she had been judged hardly, and it was some 
time before she could be at all induced to acknowledge that 
Mr Clifford had not actually passed the sentence of exclusion. 
This fact was, however, at last admitted ; and Ruth, having 
succeeded so far, began to urge her seriously to make up her 
mind to do all that was required, in order that the only real 
obstacle in her way might be removed. Alice did not know 
how or why it was ; Ruth was very earnest, apparently, and 
spoke much more fluently than Madeline, and, moreover, she 
gave her direct advice, which Madeline never ventured upon to 
any one ; but still what she said did not this morning make the 
same impression. She felt all the time as if Ruth was making 
an effort. A little weariness stole over her, and she yawned 
once or twice, which caused Ruth to sigh and look vexed. 
Alice begged her pardon, and said she really meant to attend 
to her notions, she knew they were extremely good ; but 
she was tired ; it had been very hot at the school, it was 
no wonder that Lady Catharine was forced to go home. 
Madeline passed the window just then, and nodded and smiled 
at Alice, and begged her to wait five minutes — as there was 
plenty of time — and then she would come and wish her good- 
bye. So Alice sat down, and nothing was said either by her 
or Ruth for some minutes. Alice broke the silence by 
saying — 

‘ I suppose, Ruth, I had better tell you what I came here for. 
It cannot make much difference in your opinion of me.’ 

Ruth was somewhat startled by this preamble. 

‘ I don’t know how it is,’ continued Alice ; ‘ I think I get 
into a deeper mess everyday. I wish Justine le Vergnier had 
been at Nova Scotia before she thought of coming here.’ 

‘ But what is the matter now ?’ asked Ruth. 

' Only stupidity ; I never meant to do any harm. But Mrs 
De Lacy called yesterday, as you know, and she mentioned to 
Lady Catharine that Florence had a French friend with her. 
This morning Lady Catharine asked me if it could be Justine ; 
and then I found out that Mrs Carter had written about her, 
and said something against Florence too.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 489 

‘ But what answer did you make to the question?^ inquired 
Ruth. 

‘ I was silent, and she took it for granted that it was not the 
same person.^ 

Ruth looked pained and thoughtful. 

‘ It was deceiving, I know,’ said Alice ; ^ but what could I 
do ? However, I have been miserable enough since in all 
conscience, and I could not be happy without confessing to you.’ 

Ruth did not make any comment immediately, but began to 
wind a skein of silk which she had taken from her work-box. 

‘ It is a most provoking business,’ observed Alice. 

‘ Yes, a sad one,’ was Ruth’s grave reply. 

‘ You think I have done wrong,’ said Alice ; ‘ and so I have, 
I know ; but I really am as vexed about it as you can be. 
There is one comfort, however : we need not have anything 
more to do with Florence and her plans. This notion of 
Madeline’s will help us out of our difficulty ; for we may all stay 
away from the picnic together.’ 

Just then Ruth’s silk became so entangled that she seemed 
unable to give her attention to what Alice was saying. 

‘ I am sure I don’t want to go to the picnic,’ continued 
Alice ; ‘and, besides, it maybe better not. It would certainly 
turn my head, if it would Madeline’s ; and if I am to try to be 
good, as you say, I had better keep out of temptation ; and that 
will be a good excuse for us all.’ 

Ruth laid down her silk-winder, and going to her desk took 
from it Justine’s note, which she put into Alice’s hand. Alice 
read it carefully, and when she had finished, remarked — 

‘ That makes some difference. Justine evidently wishes to 
see you.’ 

‘ Yes, to tell me her history and ask my advice.’ 

‘ Then let me stay at home, and you go,’ said Alice. 

‘ No, no — impossible. What would papa and mamma think 
of me ? The only excuse for my doing differently from 
Madeline is because of you.’ 

‘ I don’t know that Justine is worth taking so much trouble 
about,’ said Alice. 

‘ But it is not Justine only, there is Florence to be thought of. 
We really must try and persuade her to be open with her aunt. 
It will never do to let her go on as she is doing now ; and it 
would be dreadful for Justine to be governess to Agnes if she 
is not a fit person. You see, if Florence will not listen to 
letters, we must manaee to see her.’ 


490 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


^ I wish Madeline did not think it right to remain at home/ 
observed Alice. 

‘ But you must remember that she knows nothing of our 
reasons. Her example cannot be binding upon us. I am glad 
she stays away. W e must have let her into the secret if she had 
gone, and though I know she would have attended to my wishes 
and been silent, it is just as well that she should be kept out of 
the affair.’ 

Alice again said she wished they could let the matter rest ; 
she had had quite enough of it, and the further they went on 
the more difficult it seemed to be to know what to do. To all 
which Ruth assented in words, whilst still persisting in taking 
her own view of duty. Not that it was easy to settle what was 
to be done ; Lady Catharine’s suspicions made it certainly 
dangerous for Justine to meet her. Alice said that Lady Catha- 
rine had such a sharp eye, she would be sure to notice every- 
thing that went on, and if they were the least off their guard 
they might do mischief ; and first one plan was proposed and 
then another ; Ruth seeing all the difficulties, and again and 
again repeating that it was very annoying, and quite a weight 
upon her mind to be obliged to manage such a business, and 
Alice still sighing over her past deception and wishing to be 
free, yet yielding to Ruth’s arguments because she was unable 
to combat them, and always believed that what Ruth said was 
right — must be so. 

They parted at last dissatisfied and unsettled. Ruth was to 
think and decide, and let Alice know her determination the next 
day. True to her principles of doing good, Ruth’s farewell to 
Alice was accompanied by an entreaty that she would think of 
what had been said about the confirmation. 


CHAPTER L. 


UTH’S influence was in general all-powerful with Alice ; 



XV Madeline was scarcely thought of. Now the two sisters 
differed, and, strange though it may appear, Madeline’s opinion 
had the greatest weight. There is a power in simple devoted - 
ness to the service of God which always makes itself felt. It 
outbalances all reasoning — all which is termed philosophy. A 
few words from a thoroughly sincere, religious person will have 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


491 


more erifect m the end than torrents of eloquence from one who is, 
even in a slight degree, double-minded, ‘ If thine eye be single, 
thy whole body shall be full of light.^ Who does not appre- 
ciate the charm of a single-minded character? Madeline 
Clifford was inferior to her sister in many ways. She was not 
so clever ; she had not the same powers of conversation ; she 
was not so soft and engaging in manner. Ordinary acquaint- 
ances called her less interesting ; but the feeling which she 
inspired was that of confidence and rest. She had no selfish 
motives : even if she decided a case according to what would 
appear her own advantage, no one could distrust her. It was 
impossible not to see that she had but one aim — the right. To 
Alice such a character was in a degree incomprehensible, and 
hitherto she had looked upon it as simply childlike ; but the 
last conversation had altered her views. One who could steadily 
begin a course of religion, and carry it on amidst the tempta- 
tions and difficulties of a school-life, and still continue it, month 
after month and year after year, could be no child ; at least in 
the sense in which Alice used the word. There was a sense 
indeed in which Madeline was a child ; in which it was prob- 
able, and much to be hoped, that she would continue a child 
even to her old age ; for hers was the disposition of heart to 
which we may believe our Lord alluded when He said, ‘ Except 
ye be converted and become as little children, ye cannot enter 
into the kingdom of heaven.’ 

Alice went back to dine at the Manor with a more hearty re- 
solution to do her duty than she had entertained for many days. 
She even began to consider in detail what Madeline had said, and 
think whether it might not be possible to adopt her plan of setting 
aside some time in the middle of the day for private prayer. 
That seemed a practical duty, which she could begin at once. 
Perhaps, if she could, it might help her forwards ; at any rate it 
was a beginning, and perhaps also — and Alice’s heart bounded 
with a sudden and unusual feeling of happiness when the thought 
crossed her — perhaps, as Madeline had said, God would be 
pleased with her if she were to do so. Pleased with her ! Poor 
Alice could scarcely realise the idea of a fellow-creature being 
pleased with her, much less the Almighty and All Holy One. 
Yet the feeling came, though but for a moment. It passed across 
the wearying prospect of her daily duties as the sunlight flashes 
upon a gloomy landscape, and, when it was gone, the remem- 
brance of the brightness which it had caused still lingered in 


493 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


her mind. It was the first faint glimpse of that unearthly, un- 
wearied spirit of love, which converts the heaviest load of duty 
into a burden scarcely to be felt, and the saddest trials of this 
mortal pilgrimage into the ‘ light affliction that endureth but for 
a moment.^ If left to herself, Alice would undoubtedly have 
followed Madeline’s example. The hope which Ruth held out 
of Mr Clifford’s consenting to her confirmation, was a great 
stimulus to exertion ; but if she had this in view, she could not 
shut her eyes to the fact that Madeline’s decision regarding 
the picnic would be the safe one for herself. It did not require 
much self-denial to acknowledge and act upon this conclusion. 
Alice was out of spirits, and tired of having mysteries with 
Florence and Justine, and while Madeline’s conversation was 
fresh in her mind, she cared little for their society. But the 
next day brought a different determination ; for the next day 
brought Ruth to the Manor, more bent than ever upon going, 
more plausible in her reasons for believing it her own duty, and 
more eager to convince Alice that it would be impossible for 
her to go alone, because it would look so strange. 

All difficulties as to Lady Catharine were to be obviated by 
giving Florence and Justine warning beforehand ; Justine would 
then stay away from the picnic, and they might hear her his- 
tory from Florence, and use their utmost efforts to put things 
straight. Alice’s volatile temper was at length worked upon to 
believe this to be, as Ruth said, acting for the best ; doing what 
would be kind to Justine and useful to Florence. But Ruth 
was rather startled at perceiving how Alice’s whole train of 
thought altered when the decision was finally made. Having 
the picnic in her mind, she soon threw aside the confirmation. 
Ruth mentioned it, and renewed her advice, and especially 
warned her. about being respectful and attentive to Lady Catha- 
rine ; that was a point, she said, upon which her papa would 
certainly be particular. / 

But Alice’s gay ‘ Oh, yes ; trust me ; I mean to be a piece 
of perfection,’ was very different from her thoughtfulness the 
day before. 

‘ What a pity it is Alice is so changeable !’ was Ruth’s reflec- 
tion as she left the Manor. 

That of Alice, as she went down-stairs to luncheon, was, 
‘ Well, I think I am glad after all that we are going ; I dare- 
say we shall enjoy ourselves, but it will not be worth while to 
trouble myself with new plans till afterwards.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


493 


In one respect peculiarly Lady Catharine and Alice were 
entirely unlike. Lady Catharine was never changeable. What 
she was one day that she was on the next, unless outward cir- 
cumstances had occurred to cause a reasonable alteration. She 
had been grave and unhappy about Alice on the previous day ; 
she was so still. And when Lady Catharine was unhappy she 
was generally stern. 

This is not an uncommon case, and it is one which requires 
a good deal of consideration in persons who are living together. 
It is the same when people are ill ; some are melancholy, some 
are cross, some are quiet and moody ; and it is very difficult 
to make allowance for them, as we should wish to have allow- 
ance made for ourselves. As for Lady Catharine, Alice thought 
but little about her ; though she looked really very unwell. 
Her close widow’s cap always gave a certain air of suffering to 
her countenance, but now she had lost her colour and scarcely 
ate anything. It did just cross Alice’s mind that perhaps Lady 
Catharine was anxious about her, but the supposition seemed 
rather absurd. Alice was not then anxious about herself, and 
why should Lady Catharine be? 

Lady Catharine finished her scanty meal, and waited patiently 
whilst Alice regaled herself with whatever she fancied. Alice 
was apparently hungry, or at any rate she was not inclined to 
be self-denying, and some little time passed in silence, during 
which Lady Catharine sat with her hands folded, seemingly too 
much occupied with her own thoughts to be willing to interrupt 
her companion. Yet her eyes were raised from time to time, 
and once they met Alice’s, and then the expression was so earnest 
and inquiring, that Alice felt uncomfortable, and finished her 
piece of cake as quickly as she could, in the hope of escaping 
from the scrutinising gaze, which she felt even when she did not 
see it. But it w^as in vain to hope to escape from Lady Catha- 
rine whenever anything was to be said ; and when Alice poured 
out the concluding glass of water, and then looked up with the 
unspoken request in her eye, ‘ May I go?’ Lady Catharine an- 
swered it by saying, ‘ Alice, I should like to have a few minutes’ 
conversation with you.’ 

Alice’s heart sank ; she made no answer, but leaned back in 
her chair and twisted her chain. 

‘After what passed yesterday,’ continued Lady Catharine, 
‘ it will not surprise you to be told that the subject upon which 
I wish to speak is your confirmation.’ 


494 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


Alice only bent her eyes more steadfastly upon the floor. 

‘ You may give up the idea at once/ pursued Lady Catharine; 
^ but I cannot. It is a very anxious time for me, Alice, and a 
most important one for you. No one can tell the consequences 
of delay. Another year, and you may not be living ; I may 
not be living. I have spoken again to Mr Clifford. He feels 
with me. He is most unwilling to interpose any obstacle. He 
would rejoice to know that you were prepared. Mrs Clifford 
also is interested about you ; I have seen them both this morn- 
ing. All your friends care for you, Alice, but you will not care 
for yourself.’ 

The day before, Alice might have been touched by this appeal ; 
now she wished herself out of the room. 

‘ It is strange,’ continued Lady Catharine, her tone growing 
more severe as she proceeded, ‘ that the example of others 
should have so little influence with you. Mrs Clifford alluded 
to-day to her own children. Ruth, we know, is a very charming 
girl ; steady, high principled, with sense and resolution far 
beyond her years ; but even Madeline, whom we always con- 
sidered childish and thoughtless, has in the present instance 
given signs of deep seriousness. Mrs Clifford tells me that it 
is her wish to refrain from joining the picnic to St Cuthbert’s 
next week, because she fears it may disturb and occupy her 
mind more than is desirable at such a time. Alice ! what 
pleasure it would have given me to know that you had any such 
care for your best interests.’ 

An excuse rose to Alice’s lips. She knew that even that 
very morning her wish had been to follow Madeline’s example. 

‘ The world, I see,’ continued Lady Catharine, regarding her 
attentively, ‘ has too much power over you, to enable you to 
consent to any such sacrifice. You will, perhaps, say that 
Ruth does not see the necessity of it, and therefore why should 
you ? But Ruth and yourself cannot be put upon a par. No 
doubt there are very good reasons for her accepting the invi- 
tation ; in fact, it may not be proper that all the party should 
refuse. I am not saying that I consider it necessary for any 
of you to do so ; I only mention the case as an instance of 
Madeline’s earnestness. If you were in earnest, Alice, there would 
be many ways of showing it even if you did go with Ruth.’ 

‘ I do not care about the picnic,’ said Alice, in a proud tone. 

‘ Ruth knows that I do not. I am perfectly willing to stay at 
home.’ 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


495 


‘Alice/ replied Lady Catharine, ‘you are taking up this 
matter perversely. Going to the picnic, or not going, will not 
render you fit or unfit for confirmation. It is the principle upon 
which you act that is really of importance. You may, like 
Ruth, choose from good and right motives to go ; or you may, 
like Madeline, choose from good and right motives to stay at 
home ; in either case I should be satisfied. In your present 
mood, on the contrary, I must be dissatisfied. If you were to 
shut yourself up in your room for the next week, it would not 
make a difference ; it is the heart, Alice, which is at fault. ^ 
Alice was still piqued by a sense of injustice at Lady Catharine’s 
words ; she forgot that Lady Catharine could not know what 
had passed in her thoughts. 

‘ When the idea of delaying your confirmation was first pro- 
posed,’ continued Lady Catharine, ‘ I hoped that the very idea 
would so have distressed you as to arouse a spirit of energy. 
But I am disappointed, grievously disappointed ; you appear 
utterly indifferent. God grant you may not really be so.’ 

A tear glistened in Alice’s eye, but she strove to appear indif- 
ferent. Lady Catharine gazed upon her sadly, and a sigh rose 
from ^the very depths of her heart. ‘ Alice,’ she said, more 
solemnly, ‘ indecision cannot continue. If your conduct does 
not determine the question one way it will the other ; and 
remember, that in these smaller trials of life, we are rehearsing 
the great trials of our whole existence on earth. Every time 
that we are called upon to make choice between good and evil, 
we are throwing a weight into the balance which shall decide 
our happiness for eternity.’ 

Then the tear which had gathered in Alice’s eye rolled slowly 
down her cheek ; but she turned away and Lady Catharine 
did not perceive it. 

When Alice, after this conversation, went to her room, a note 
from Ruth was lying on her table. It was to this effect, that 
she had found on her return home that Mrs De Lacy had 
written to Mrs Clifford, saying that the arrangements for the 
picnic wTre quite completed, and she hoped nothing would 
happen to interfere with the pleasure of the party. They were 
to meet at Sheldon, and from thence proceed to St Cuthbert’s — 
a very large party, much larger than was at first proposed. 
Lady Catharine was to bring the Laneton party to Sheldon, 
and afterwards they might settle as to the young people going 
together, which would of course be more agreeable to them. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


496 

They were to dine under the trees in one of the courtyards of 
the castle, if the weather should be fine ; but as there was an 
empty room at the porter’s lodge, it would not much interfere 
with their comfort even if there should be a shower of rain. 
Mrs De Lacy hinted the possibility of returning to Sheldon, and 
finishing the evening there ; upon which Ruth’s observation was, 
‘ I think this may suit us. In a line to me, Florence says she 
has settled to go alone; why, I do not know.’ Alice read the 
note twice, with much interest. It was still open before her 
when she sat down, trying to recall the feelings which Lady 
Catharine’s words had awakened. The choice between good 
and evil at that moment lay before her. The party of pleasure 
was not the unimportant matter which Lady Catharine imagined. 
Alice knew — she did not even attempt to shut her eyes to the 
knowledge — that it would be a temptation, and that if she could 
avoid it, a victory over herself would be obtained, and the first 
step on the right road taken. 

When Alice entered her own chamber, the resolution was all 
but made. She read Ruth’s note and wavered 1 Indecision ! 
still indecision ! Alice was miserable again. But Ruth was 
going herself — Ruth wished her to go — Ruth was so good she 
could not lead any one wrong. 

And was Ruth, then, become Alice’s tempter She whose 
one sole object was to do good. Was it possible ? 


CHAPTER LI. 

I T was a glorious day for the picnic at St Cuthbert’s, bright, 
and almost cloudless, with a soft, cooling breeze, and no 
prospect of a change of weather. Madeline rose early, and a 
feeling of regret stole over her as she threw open the lattice and 
fastened it back; The fresh air blew deliciously into the room, 
bearing the scent of the roses, and jasmine, and clematis, which 
covered the walls of the house. She sat down by the open 
window, to gather a rosebud which was just lifting itself to a 
level with her hand, and remained thinking for many minutes. 
Ruth came to her, and kneeling down by her side, said — 

‘ Maddy, I wish you were going.’ 

Madeline was startled by the expression of her own wishes ; 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


A97 

.It recalled her to herself. ‘ N 0/ she said ; ‘ don’t wish it. I 
am much better away.’ 

‘ But it would add very much to my pleasure if you were 
going/ observed Ruth. ‘ I never like things when you are 
away, there seems no one to enjoy them with me. Sisters are 
different from everything else.’ 

‘ Yes, sisters are different/ said Madeline, gently putting back 
Ruth’s hair, and gazing upon her with a look of affection that 
could not be spoken. ‘ A sister is one’s self ; something so pre- 
cious ; it is a weight upon my mind very often that I cannot say 
it out more. Ruth ! I do love you so very dearly.’ Madeline’s 
lips quivered, and when Ruth kissed her, she smiled and said, 

‘ she felt so silly, almost as if she could cry.’ 

‘ About the picnic, or because you are fond of me ? ’ inquired 
Ruth, in a tone which, whatever the words might have appeared, 
showed no lightness of feeling. 

' ‘ Because I am fond of you, I think. I don’t know why it is, 

but beautiful days always make me think more of you, Ruth. 
We have spent a great many together, very happy ones.’ 

‘ And it seems hard that we cannot spend this one,’ observed 
Ruth. 

‘ Yes, it did seem hard just for a moment ; but the worst is 
gone now. One reason why I am sorry is because we have never 
had any pleasure apart before.’ 

‘ No, never since we were children,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ And it would not have signified in the same way then,’ con- 
tinued Madeline. ‘ We did not know then why we cared for 
each other ; but it grows upon one now, — the love, the certainty 
that we are all in all to each other, and nothing can come be- 
tween us. Sometimes in the bright summer days, when you 
are with me, it comes over me like a new feeling.’ 

Ruth was resting her head upon Madeline’s shoulder, and 
her arm was clasped around her waist. The strong resemblance 
of childhood was still remarkable between them. Their fair 
hair mingled in curls which could not be distinguished in colour, 
and the eyes of each bore the same bright hue. Madeline’s 
smile was subdued now, and the expression of her mouth might 
liave been taken for that of Ruth ; and as Ruth raised her eyes 
to her sister, half in thankfulness for her love, and half in eager- 
ness to show how fully it was returned, the warmth and sim- 
plicity of her expression might have been Madeline’s in her 
happiest mood. We are all strangely formed in one mould, yet 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


498 

the infinite difference that lies beneath the outward resemblance ! 
God only can understand it ! 

‘ Yes, you will love me always,’ was Ruth’s reply, spoken in a 
low earnest voice ; ‘ but Madeline,’ she added, ‘ I wish we c15u]d 
always think alike.’ 

‘ I do not see where we differ to-day,’ replied Madeline. ‘ I 
should do like you if I were strong-minded.’ 

‘ Strong-minded,’ repeated Ruth, musingly. 

‘ Yes, that is the one thing especially in which I feel you are 
my superior.’ 

Ruth said hurriedly, ‘ Madeline, I am not your superior.’ 

Madeline only smiled, and answered, ‘ That it was not the 
time to argue the question. Dress first, Ruth, dear,’ she said, 
playfully, ‘ and we will talk about it afterwards.’ 

Yet Ruth still lingered at the window, looking intently upon 
the view of the gardens and the village, and the distant sea. 
‘ Madeline, I am not your superior,’ she said again, after a few 
seconds, ‘ and it is not because I am good that I am going to 
the picnic.’ 

Madeline went up to her, and kissing her, answered, ‘ You 
shall be as wicked as you like if you will only dress. We are 
both dreadfully late.’ 

‘ But,’ said Ruth, taking no notice of the warning, * I wish 
you would understand me ; and I wish I could understand you 
exactly ; what the real reason is, I mean, for your not going.’ 

Madeline laughed. ‘ Why, Ruth,’ she said, ‘ you do not 
suspect me of two reasons, do you ? ’ 

‘ No, not two ; but I do not think you have one clear one.’ 

‘ I will tell you what my reason is,’ said Madeline. ‘ Do you 
remember last year when we were staying with grandmamma 
and aunt Mordaunt, our drinking tea at old Mr Falconer’s, and 
some of the people playing whist ? ’ 

‘ Yes, certainly.’ 

‘ Then you must remember too that lady who would be par- 
ticular about following rules, and kept on saying, “ When in 
doubt win the trick.” I asked papa afterwards what it meant, 
and he said it was a lesson for life as well as for cards ; that 
when we were in doubt as to what was right, it was better to 
decide upon that which would be safer at the present moment. 
So you see that is what I am doing. It might do me harm to 
go to the picnic ; therefore, as there is a doubt, it seems better 
to stay at home and win the trick,’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


499 


Ruth was ready with an objection that this would not hold 
good, because there* must be a doubt about all society, whether 
it was desirable. 

But Madeline’s quick reply was drawn from a remark of her 
papa’s, ‘ that of course, as a general rule, people were not 
made to live like hermits, and therefore they must meet in 
society, and it would be wrong to stay away. But each one 
must decide for himself according to his own conscience, as to 
what society, and how much was good. The picnic, she 
thought, would not be good for her at that particular time, which 
was the reason she refrained from it. 

Lady Catharine’s carriage turned into the Parsonage lane 
punctually as the clock struck nine. Madeline was the first to 
hear the rumble of the wheels, and to hasten Ruth, that Lady 
Catharine might not be kept an instant waiting, ‘ Here are 
your gloves and your parasol, Ruth ; and don’t forget your 
shawl. It will be cold, perhaps, coming home ; and your cloak, 
too, I think you had better have. Stay, the string is off, just 
take mine instead. How glad I am it is a nice day ! ’ There 
was no sadness in Madeline’s face then ; her step was as light 
and free, and her voice as cheerful, as if she had been antici- 
pating the greatest amusement, instead of a long and almost 
solitary day. 

The head of the barouche was drawn over, though it was a 
very warm morning, and no one saw at first that the carriage 
only contained one person. 

‘ Two, there must be, certainly,’ said Madeline, in precisely 
that tone which expresses decided doubt. ‘ Ruth, just come 
liere.’ Ruth went to her. 

‘ No, Madeline ; there is only one. Alice it is. Lady Catha- 
rine is not there. How very strange !’ 

‘ She must be ready,’ said Madeline, laughing. ‘ I will ven- 
ture to say that Lady Catharine was never known to be late 
from the time she could walk to the present hour.’ 

‘ The house must be burned down, or that staid Marsham. 
must be ill,’ continued Ruth, ‘ or Lady Catharine must have 
slept ten minutes beyond her time ; no common cause could 
induce her to break an engagement.’ 

Both ran to the door to receive Alice, and inquire what was 
the matter. 

Alice looked pleased rather than not, as she said that it was 
nothing very particular, only one of the housemaids had been 


500 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


taken ill, and Lady Catharine did not like to leave home, so she 
had sent her alone and begged that Mrs Clifford would take 
charge of her. ‘ She was very good-natured about it, I must 
say,’ continued Alice, ‘ I never saw her so fussed before; first 
thinking of one thing, then another. Once she said we should 
go and return quite early ; but I think I must have looked dis- 
appointed, for she changed her mind directly, and said, “ No,' 
that would not do ; ” and then she thought that perhaps Maria 
would be better before we set off ; but at last she settled that I 
should go without her, though I am sure she did not half fancy it.’ 

‘And did you not offer to stay at home?’ inquired Madeline, 
in a tone of some surprise. 

‘No, it never entered my head. Would it have been right, 
do you think ?’ 

‘ It would have helped Lady Catharine out of a difficulty,’ 
replied Madeline. 

‘ Well, perhaps it might, but I never once thought of it ; and 
besides, it would not have done, would it, Ruth?’ she added, 
with a meaning glance, which made Ruth turn away in dis- 
pleasure. ‘ I must say one thing to you,’ continued Alice, 
drawing Ruth aside, ‘ I had a long sermon about young ladies’ 
friendships, and specially about Florence Trevelyan. I really 
believe that if she thought I cared an iota for Florence, beyond 
liking to see her because we were at school together, she would 
have kept me from the picnic. She seems to have some 
especial prejudice against her, and says she cannot help being 
glad that the whole party are going, to France. We are safe, 
however, in one way ; she has not a notion that Justine is really 
Justine, for she said again that of course I should have known 
if she had been my old acquaintance.’ 

‘ I wonder after all this that you were allowed to come with 
us,’ said Ruth, whose countenance had become more and more 
overcast as Alice went on. 

‘ The long engagement, and your mamma’s going with us 
were the great things in my favour,’ replied Alice. ‘ Lady 
Catharine has such trust in your mamma.’ 

‘ I begin to be half sorry we have troubled ourselves at all 
about Justine or Florence either,’ said Ruth. ‘ It might have 
been better to let them take their own way.’ 

Alice only laughed, and declared, ‘ She did not care for any- 
thing now. She intended to enjoy herself thoroughly, and put 
care aside.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


501 


*• Care and the confirmation/ thought Ruth ; for the quiet 


way in which Alice repeated what Lady Catharine had said, 
and the indifference with w'hich she spoke of her own particular 
deception, were, convincing proofs that her mind w^as not in a 
fit state for a religious ordinance. 

Madeline gazed after the carriage as it drove away with a 
passing wish to be in it ; but it was so soon checked that when 
her father stopped her as she was going up-stairs, and asked if 
she repented her choice, she was able to answer, heartily and 
sincerely, ‘ No, indeed ; but I hope they will have a happy day.’ 


CHAPTER LIE 



LORENCE TREVELYAN met Ruth with the informa- 


J- tion — accompanied by a smile which she could not 
altogether restrain — that Justine had a bad headache and was 
to keep her room for the day. When she found, however, that 
Lady Catharine was remaining at the Manor, her tone of 
amusement changed into that of annoyance. 

‘ How extremely provoking!’ she exclaimed, ‘to have given 
up our pleasure for nothing; and besides, I rather looked for- 
ward to seeing Juno scrambling over the broken walls.’ 

A look of great disgust crossed Ruth’s face. 

‘ It is safer in one way, though,’ said Alice, who had joined 
them, and who perceived that Ruth was not inclined to reply. 
‘ Mrs Clifford might have made remarks as well as Lady 
Catharine.’ 

‘ We were not much afraid of that as long as she has no 
suspicions,’ replied Florence ^ ‘for Mrs Clifford never saw 
Justine, and my aunt, who has a knack of miscalling foreign 
names, always addresses her as Mademoiselle Veray, and one 
name being as good as another, we have never "taken the 
trouble to enlighten her.’ 

‘ Florence, Florence I ’ exclaimed Ruth, ‘ this will never do. 
You really grow worse and worse.’ 

‘ Ah, well ! we will have a little talk together by and by. 
Don’t trouble yourself, Ruth ; you will be quite satisfied ;’ and 
Florence moved away to speak to some other friends. 

Ruth watched her as she went from one to the other, smiling 


502 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


and talking, and bending gracefully, and with perfect self- 
possession, whilst her aunt introduced her to several persons 
whom she had not known before ; and could scarcely believe 
it possible that this was the same dull, silly girl to whom 
she had felt herself so superior at school, and who even now 
seemed to look to her for advice. Nothing is so flattering 
to our self-conceit as deference showm by those who either 
in rank, age, or position are naturally above us ; and Ruth 
felt raised in her own opinion when she saw that she was 
respected by one who apparently knew so much more of 
the world than she did. Florence herself appeared in a new 
light ; and the ease of manner which she showed struck Ruth 
as something wonderful and enviable. The party was now com- 
plete, and Mrs De Lacy eager to set off. Mrs Clifford, Ruth, 
and Alice were called away to settle in what carriage and whh 
what friends they would best like to proceed to St Cuthbert’s. 
Florence tried very hard to manage for Ruth and Alice to go 
alone with her in a little pony-chaise of Mrs De Lacy's ; but 
Mrs Clifford was anxious about Alice, as Lady Catharine was 
not there to give her consent, and very unwillingly was obliged 
to insist upon her remaining with her. Alice was extremely 
disappointed ; but consoled herself by the thought that it would 
be almost as pleasant to have Ruth and Mrs Clifford to herself 
as to be with Florence. Here, again, however, she found an 
obstacle to her wishes. Mrs Clifford did not object to Ruth’s 
going with Florence, provided there was a servant behind ; and 
when the choice was given to Ruth between the barouche* and 
the pony- chaise, true to her principle of doing good, she de- 
cided that it would be better to remain with Florence, and have 
an opportunity of conversing with her, than to shut herself up 
with Alice, whom she might see every day. When the whole 
party at length drove off, poor Alice was almost the only person 
dissatisfied with the arrangement made for her! 

St Cuthbert’s Castle stood near the sea shore, upon a flat 
space of raised ground, the sides of which were covered with 
trees and underwood ; the ruins spread over a considerable ex- 
tent, and the outer walls could be traced without difficulty ; but 
the former habitable part of the building was now converted 
into a homely dwelling, inhabited by the family of a poor 
man, to whose charge the castle was committed, and only 
one room remained, with its low rafters, and deep windows 
encircled by ivy, and half hidden by shrubs and elder bushes, 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


503 

to show the style of the apartments in which our ancestors 
once lived. 

A deep ravine lay between the castle and the opposite hill, 
on the summit of which was placed a watch-tower, command- 
ing an extensive view over the sea, and reaching to a faint line 
of the coast many miles distant. It was more as a picturesque 
ruin, and beautiful in its situation, that St Cuthbert’s was cele- 
brated than from possessing any remarkable historical associa- 
tions. The original building, like that of many other castles 
of the kind, was of Saxon date ; but tradition stated that the 
Britons had fortified the same spot even before them. 

A picnic, however, does not afford the very best opportunity 
for carrying on study of any kind. Mrs De Lacy’s party in 
general cared little for Britons or Saxons. The greater part 
sought for amusement in clambering over dangerous places ; a 
few had set their hearts upon obtaining a good position for a 
sketch ; and of the remainder some wandered about in alarm, 
watching the young people, who seemed upon the point of 
breaking their necks as they scrambled over the walls, and some 
sat down upon the grass and talked over old times with friends 
whom they had not lately met, whilst one or two, amongst whom 
Mrs De Lacy was conspicuous, hurried from spot to spot, to 
seek the best situation for preparing the dinner, a main object of 
all English meetings, whether of business or of pleasure. 

Mrs Qifford was unwilling to be any restraint upon Alice, 
and as soon as they arrived at the castle proposed that she 
should wait for Ruth and Florence, who were some little way 
behind them, and then join them and go over the ruins to- 
gether. Alice assented, though without appearing particularly 
to care what she did. She was, in fact, annoyed at having 
been left by Ruth ; and not all Mrs Clifford’s endeavours to 
amuse her on the road had sufficed to restore her to good 
humour. Ruth and Florence drove up in high spirits, all 
serious conversation having been diverted by the necessity of 
attending to a frisky pony. Ruth had made her first essay in 
driving, and was very desirous of exhibiting her skill as they 
entered the courtyard. She called to Alice to observe how 
well she could manage, but Alice only looked up and said — 

‘ Yes,’ and made no further remark. 

^ Are you ready, my dear,’ said Mrs Clifford, as Alice lin- 
gered, examining the gateway, before entering the castle. ‘ We 
are the last of all.’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


504 

Alice hurried on, and Mrs Clifford, reading what was passing 
in her mind, followed, willing, if possible, to put her in good 
spirits again. 

‘ We must not keep quite to ourselves,’ she said, ‘ or we shall 
miss hearing all there is to be told. The old guide will never 
forgive us if we make him repeat his story twice.’ 

‘ Oh ! but, mamma,’ exclaimed Ruth, ‘ let us get rid of the 
old guide. I have brought the book that papa gave me the 
other day, telling all about the castle. It will be much better 
to go over it by ourselves, and find out all the parts. Come, 
Florence.’ 

Agnes De Lacy at that moment ran up to them. She had 
been sent by her mamma to look for them. Mrs De Lacy 
wanted Florence to give her opinion about the proper place for 
the dinner. Florence hurried away, but returned almost imme- 
diately, begging Ruth to accompany her. This marked prefer- 
ence irritated Alice still more ; it seemed as if Ruth had quite 
taken her place ; but Mrs Clifford objected to Ruth’s going 
alone, and they went on together ; Florence and Ruth still 
in front. Mrs De Lacy had fixed upon a shady spot under 
some trees, which grew in what had once been the tilt-yard of 
the castle. It was a large free space, sheltered and private, 
and here the servants were busy placing as many tables and 
chairs as could be provided from the porter’s lodge, whilst 
hampers and baskets, veal pies and hams, tarts and sand- 
wiches, cakes, biscuits, soda water and champagne bottles, 
reposed side by side upon the grass. Mrs De Lacy was one 
of those persons who, when roused from indolence, can only be 
happy in extreme activity. She detained Florence a long time 
consulting her upon points which would have been much better 
settled by the servants ; and Florence, not liking to be alone 
in her annoyance, kept Ruth by her side, whilst Mrs Clifford 
and Alice sat down upon a bench, expecting every minute to 
be at liberty. Several parties strayed into the tilt-yard ; but 
finding how it was to be occupied, went away, and as their 
voices were heard in merriment, sometimes quite near and 
sometimes in the distance, whilst they explored the castle, 
Alice grew more and more provoked at being obliged to waste 
so much time. Mrs Clifford was just thinking of calling Ruth 
and going over the ruins with them alone, when a gentleman 
and two ladies appeared in the court, and instead of retiring, 
made their way to Mrs De Lacy. The gentleman apologised for 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


5-^5 

Intruding, but begged to leave his niece under her care, whilst 
he went with his daughter to see the castle. The young lady 
was then taken to a seat near that occupied by Mrs Clifford 
and Alice, and her uncle and cousin went away. She was a 
pleasing-looking girl, apparently much out of health. Alice 
was struck by her features ; they recalled a face she had seen 
before, and she tried to remember whose it was. She went 
up to Ruth, who had wandered away with Florence to a little 
distance. 

‘Do look, Ruth,’ she said, ‘who can that be? Just watch 
her ; she is so precisely like some one I know.’ 

Ruth had not noticed her particularly, but now she drew 
nearer. 

‘ Mary Vernon ! ’ she said ; ‘ how very odd ! — exactly her 
face it is ; only the hair is lighter. Who is she, Florence ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know,’ said Florence, quickly ; ‘ my aunt has asked 
a great many whom I have never seen. I hope she has 
nothing to do with Mary Vernon.’ 

' ‘ Don’t say that, Florence,’ exclaimed Ruth, eagerly. ‘Mary 
'\’'ernon is delightful ; but you never would acknowledge it.’ 

‘ I don’t care for her,’ said Florence, ‘ one way or the other ; 
but I am glad she is in Ireland, and I do not wish her or any 
of her friends to trouble themselves with our concerns just 
now.’ 

‘Why? what? how could they trouble themselves?’ inquired 
Ruth. 

‘ Oh ! I don’t know. I think they are interfering people,’ 
replied Florence, with an air of indifference ; but she imme- 
diately turned the conversation. 

Ruth regarded the young lady more attentively, and again 
declared the likeness to Mary Vernon so striking, that she 
could not rest without knowing who she was. Florence, how- 
ever, called her attention to another subject immediately, and 
although Ruth made several attempts to go, she was detained 
for some little time. Mrs De Lacy, in the meantime, had 
introduced the stranger to Mrs Clifford as a Miss Merton, a 
niece of Colonel Merton, the gentleman who had just left them, 
and who had a house in the neighbourhood of Sheldon. After 
this introduction, conversation went on easily ; and when Alice, 
having finished her few words with Ruth, went back to the 
bench, she found Mrs Clifford and their new acquaintance on 
very agreeable terms. Alice listened to what -was said with 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


506 

much interest, endeavouring to find a clue to the striking like- 
ness ; and one subject leading to another, it was not long 
before the desired point was reached. London was spoken 
of ; London air ; residences in London ; schools amongst 
them ; then Mrs Carter’s name was mentioned, and the 
mystery was immediately solved, by Miss Merton’s exclama- 
tion ; ‘ Oh ! were you at Mrs Carter’s ? I had a first cousin 
there two or three years ago. Mary Vernon — did you know 
her .? ’ Alice laughed at this easy explanation of the circum- 
stance which had perplexed her, and giving but a hasty answer 
to the question, hastened away to tell Ruth of the discovery. 
Florence was just then proposing to Ruth that they should 
carry off Alice on a scrambling expedition to the top of the 
gateway, and leave Mrs De Lacy and Mrs Clifford to take care 
of the stranger, who seemed, she said, to have neither strength 
nor spirits for such an undertaking. 

‘Never mind Mary Vernon and Miss Merton, Alice,’ she 
exclaimed, her countenance showing anything but satisfaction 
at the information which Alice gave with so much pleasure. 
‘ They are very good people, I daresay ; but Mary Vernon is 
in Ireland, and Miss Merton is fixed to that bench for the rest 
of the day. ‘ They are neither of them any good on a picnic 
party. I can’t see indeed why invalids should come to such 
things.’ 

‘ Come, Ruth, you must be introduced to her,’ said Alice in 
her turn, unheeding Florence’s obser vation. 

‘ Yes, of course, I will come directly. Lthink I should like 
to stay and talk to her. Can’t we wait, Florence, till after 
dinner, for the gateway V 

‘ No, no, indeed, we must not; we shall have the watch-tower 
for after dinner ; and your sketch, Ruth, which you told me you 
had set your heart upon.’ 

‘ Yes, I lorgot, I was to take it for Madeline; but still I must 
just ask about Mary. Do wait for me — only five minutes.’ 

‘ No, really, Ruth, we must not wait; if we want to see the 
gateway, we must go at once. I daresay Miss Merton is quite 
happy without knowing you.’ 

‘ No, I assure you she is not,’ observed Alice ; ‘ I heard her 
mention Ruth’s name just as I came away. Of course, Mary 
Vernon has talked to her about Ruth.’ 

Florence looked more discomposed than Alice had often 
before seen her : but finding that Ruth was bent upon the 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


507 


introduction, she followed close behind, begging her not to 
delay. Ruth had many questions to ask and much to hear, 
being delighted to meet with some one who had lately seen 
Mary Vernon, and could tell every particular about her ; but 
Florence seemed determined to give her no rest. Miss Merton 
happening to mention that she hoped to remain in the neigh- 
bourhood some time, Florence instantly made this a pretext for 
hurr}dng Ruth away, observing that, ‘ as there would be many 
future opportunities, no doubt, for conversation, but none, 
probably, for seeing St Cuthbert’s, it would be better to defer 
what was to be said for the present.^ 

Alice had by this time partially recovered her good humour ; 
not, however, from any effort of principle, but merely because her 
attention was drawn off from herself. When Florence begged 
her to accompany them, she made no objection, though a little 
before she had formed the per\'erse resolution of leaving Ruth 
and Florence to themselves for the rest of the day. Mrs Clifford 
could not allow Miss Merton to remain alone, as Mrs De Lacy 
was gone from the tilt-yard ; and after promising to return in 
time for dinner, and to keep to the regular steps which led to the 
top of the gateway, Florence, Ruth, and Alice went away to- 
gether, evidently much to the satisfaction of the former. Alice 
could not help saying to Ruth as they lingered in a narrow path 
a little behind Florence — 

‘ I thought, Ruth, you had given me up, and taken to a new 
friend.’ 

Ruth quite laughed at the idea. 

‘ How foolish, Alice ! ’ she replied ; ‘ you forget the reason of 
my coming here.’ 

‘ To see Florence, and talk to her gravely. But have you 
done it ?’ 

‘ Not yet ; there has not been time enough.’ 

* When you were driving together there was, surely; and just 
now, when you were walking up and down the court, you were 
talking very fast.’ 

‘ There are proper seasons,’ replied Ruth ; • one cannot intro- 
duce subjects abruptly ; but I mean to say something by and by. 
All this is leading to it ; we are becoming better acquainted, and 
Florence will be more inclined to listen to me when she under- 
stands me thoroughly. I assure you it is not time thrown away 
if one has any hope of influencing her rightly. 

‘ Well, you know best,’ was Alice’s reply ; ‘ but I am glad to 


5o8 - ' LANE TON PARSONAGE. 

have a reason for things. And you really do not like Florence 
better than me ? ’ 

‘ Oh no ! impossible ! ’ exclaimed Ruth, in a tone so loud 
that it made Florence turn round and inquire what was im- 
possible But Ruth evaded the answer, and changed the 
conversation, and it was apparently forgotten, though Alice 
became more cheerful after it. 


CHAPTER LIII. 


GREAT bell rang — the bell at the gateway : it was the 



signal for dinner. Parties came pouring into the tilt- 
yard from every quarter. Florence, Ruth, and Alice made 
their appearance when the tables were half filled. Mrs Clifford 
went to meet them. 

‘ You are late, my dears, but I have kept places for you. 
Colonel Merton was kind enough to give an order to his 
servant.’ 

Florence slightly coloured, and pointing to an empty place 
at her aunt’s table, said they could go there. 

‘ Thank you ; but we need not crowd Mrs De Lacy. Come, 
Alice, my love,’ and Mrs Clifford, feeling herself especially bound 
to take charge of Alice, walked forward with her. 

The countenance of Florence betrayed extreme annoyance; 
but her face was averted from Ruth, and they both hurried on. 

‘ Now, then,’ said Colonel Merton, as they came up, ‘there 
are two seats on each side reserved especially.’ 

Florence still went on, at the risk of crowding Mrs Clifford. 

‘ Mrs Clifford, this place is for you,’ said Colonel Merton. * 
He pointed to the seat next to himself. 

Miss Merton took her position next to Alice, by her side. 
Florence could not prevent it ; she went round to a chair oppo- 
site, and sank into it with a face gloomy as a thunder-cloud. 

‘And that young lady is the daughter of Mr Trevelyan, of 
Cromer Court, is she 1 ’ inquired Miss Merton of Alice, as die 
looked at Florence after a silence of some length. 

‘ Yes ; there are two sisters and several brothers. You must 
have heard Mary Vernon speak of her.’ 

‘ Was she at Mrs Carter’s ? I forgot Mary’s mentioning 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


509 

that. What I have known about her has been since they were 
at school.' 

‘ Indeed ! ’ repeated Alice. ‘ I fancied you were strangers.' 

‘ So we are personally ; but there was an unhappy affair 
about a French governess in which she was mixed up, and then 
I used to hear her name frequently. Mary and she did not 
take the same view of the case. It was a sad business 
altogether.' 

Alice's curiosity was in a moment completely aroused. Just 
then Mrs Clifford spoke to Alice upon some indifferent subject ; 
yet Alice was struck by her tone of voice, for it was unusually 
grave. Alice gave the answer ; but Mrs Clifford did not seem 
to regard it. She was watching Florence and Ruth. 

‘ I have told Mrs Clifford the history,' continued Miss Merton, 
‘without mentioning Mademoiselle Le Vergnier’s name, and 
she quite agrees with me in thinking Miss Trevelyan decidedly 
mistaken, to say the least.' 

‘ Is it a long history.?' inquired Alice, not liking openly to 
say how much she wished to hear it. 

‘ Rather, if I were to tell you all,' replied Miss Merton ; ‘ but 
did Miss Trevelyan never mention the subject to you ? ' 

‘ I have heard something about a governess,' said Alice, feel- 
ing ashamed of the equivocation, and yet not thinking herself 
at liberty to speak more plainly. 

‘ I should have supposed you would have known the whole 
affair,' continued Miss Merton ; ‘for this French governess had 
something to do with Mrs Carter. She was not exactly a pupil ; 
but Mrs Carter, I know, was very much interested about her, 
and indeed kept friends with her much longer than any one else 
would have done.' 

‘ But what was the story .? ' asked Alice. 

‘ I can scarcely tell you in detail — dinner would be ended 
before I had half finished, if I were to try — but I can give it 
you shortly. Though I should not wish Miss Trevelyan to 
know we were talking about it,' she added, observing that the 
eyes of Florence were fixed upon them. 

‘ Oh ! never mind,' replied Alice, eager above all things to 
hear the truth of Justine's history. ‘ No one can hear across 
the table, there is such a noise.' 

‘ My authority is very good,' observed Miss Merton ; ‘ for 
this French girl. Mademoiselle Le Vergnier — you must recollect 
her now, surely .? ' 


510 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


• Yes — the name — I knew her a little/ replied Alice, hur- 
riedly. 

‘ Mademoiselle Le Vergnier was governess to some cousins of 
hlary Vernon’s, the Darnleys. They lived not very far from us 
when we were in Shropshire, and they were very good people — 
rather strict, but still extremely respected — and I am sure they 
would not for the world have told a falsehood. They took this 
Justine le Vergnier, upon a recommendation of some old friends, 
to be a governess. Mary Vernon heard of it, and not having 
a good opinion of her, was rather worried at the notion. She 
wrote, I know, to Mrs Carter about it, and Mrs Carter gave 
Mrs Darnley a hint to be watchful as to books, and conver- 
sation, and that sort of thing ; but the children were very young, 
and Mrs Carter said that it would be a perfect charity if Justine 
could be for some time in a steady family ; and she really hoped 
that she was much improved and likely to do well. So she 
went there, and at first it was all very smooth, and Mrs Darnley 
liked her extremely. At the end of six months Mr and Mrs 
Darnley were called away from home upon some very special 
business, and they thought as they had a good nurse, they might 
leave Justine with the children for about a week. She made 
all sorts of promises, and they went away perfectly satisfied. 
They came back rather suddenly, late at night. Of course 
Justine was to have been there to meet them ; but she was not; 
no one knew anything about her ; the children were in bed, and 
the servants in the kitchen ; but there was no Mademoiselle Le 
Vergnier. About half-past eleven she came in, very much dis- 
tressed and surprised of course, but she had an admirable 
excuse ready. A young friend, lately come to the neighbour- 
hood, had, she said, been taken very ill, and had sent to beg 
her to go to her ; and as there was no one in the house whose 
permission she could ask, she had gone, after seeing that the 
children were safe in bed. It seemed strange that she should 
have told nothing to the servants ; but she gave some plausible 
reason — I forget what — and Mrs Darnley began to think it was 
all right.’ 

‘ And was it really so ? ’ inquired Alice. 

’ N o, indeed. I cannot tell you how the truth came out ; it 
was only by degrees. She kept up the deception wonderfully 
even about the sick friend ; but at last it was discovered that 
this going out was a constant practice, and that she was in 
the habit of visiting not only the sick friend, but all her family, 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


511 

without Mrs Darnley’s know’ledge. And what made it in- 
finitely worse, these people were persons whom her father par- 
ticularly objected to her knowing, or having anything to do 
with. You may suppose there was an end to her situation at 
Mrs Darnley’s, and she was sent home as fast as possible.’ 

‘ It was wrong — extremely wrong,’ said Alice, looking very 
thoughtful. ‘Are you quite sure it is true .?’ 

‘ Yes ; how could I be mistaken ? The Darnleys are Mary 
Vernon’s cousins ; the moment all this was known they wrote 
to her to tell her of it. Mary had some correspondence with 
Justine herself.’ 

‘ But Mary never said anything to Ruth in any of her letters,’ 
observed Alice. 

‘ No, because Mary is careful and charitable, and will never 
say a word against any person if she can possibly help it ; and 
such a story as this must be the ruin of Justine with every one. 
I should never have heard it, but that a friend of mine had 
some thoughts of engaging her : then Mary told me the whole 
history, a great deal more than I have told you.’ 

‘ And did Mary think that nothing could ever be done for 
Justine ? ’ inquired Alice. 

‘ She was extremely unhappy about her, especially after she 
had prevented my friend from engaging her. It seemed, she 
said, as if she had done Justine an injury; and I know that she 
gave her money through Mrs Carter, and managed at one time 
to procure her some pupils for drawing and French lessons 
merely, where she could do no harm. But it was impossible 
for her to keep up the acquaintance, because she herself is 
quite young, and her father and aunt would highly have disap- 
proved of it.’ 

‘ But you have not said anything about Florence yet,’ said 
Alice. 

‘ Miss Trevelyan — oh, I forgot. But do you know,’ — and 
Miss Merton blushed — ‘ I am not at all sure I have been doing 
right in talking to you in this way. I don’t think Mary Vernon 
would have done it. I began from fancying that as you appeared 
such a great friend of Miss Trevelyan’s, you might have heard 
all the affair before, and then I was led on I don’t know how. 
Really, I believe it was very wrong.’ 

‘ But you must finish now,’ said Alice, with a little brusque- 
ness of manner, and not at all sympathising with her companion’s 
self-reproach. - ‘ I think you are bound to tell me what you 
have to say against Florence.’ 


512 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


Not against her, that is such a hard expression,’ said Misa 
Merton, looking very uncomfortable. 

‘ But I should like to know what it is you have to say,’ per- 
sisted Alice, who perceived that the party was on the point of 
Breaking up, and was anxious to learn all that could be told 
before she was separated from her new acquaintance. 

‘ After all, you may think it more a difference of opinion than 
any real harm,’ replied Miss Merton. ‘ I believe Miss Trevelyan 
had been in the habit of corresponding with Mademoiselle Le 
Vergnier, and when this unfortunate business was discovered, 
Justine wrote to give her version of it; and, although Miss 
Trevelyan was told the whole history, even to the most minute 
details, she took Justine’s part, and actually persuaded her 
father and mother to invite her to Cromer Court.’ 

‘ But if she believed Justine innocent,’ said Alice, ‘ how could 
it be wrong 1 ’ 

‘ How was she to be the judge .^’ said Miss Merton. ‘ How 
could she know more of Justine’s character than the Darnleys 
and Mrs Carter ? Mrs Carter tried to stop the acquaintance, 
but Miss Trevelyan is such a lavourite at home, that she was 
allowed to do just what she liked. The friendship went on, 
and goes on still, I believe, though I have not heard of it lately ; 
and I don’t know what has become of Mademoiselle Le Verg- 
nier. I rather think she went back to her father after staying 
at Cromer Court.’ 

‘ Alice, my dear,’ said Mrs Clifford, ‘ where are your 
thoughts ? ’ 

Alice started. 

‘ We are left nearly the last, you see,’ said Mrs Clifford, 
smiling. 

Alice rose mechanically, and stood looking about, as if not 
knowing what to do. Whilst listening to Miss Merton, her 
imagination had strayed far away from the picnic. 

* I am afraid you will think me very unkind,’ whispered Miss 
Merton. 

‘ Oh, no, not at all ; I am glad to have heard.’ Alice did 
not think of saying anything more; she was not used to society, 
and allowed herself to be absorbed and rendered absent by any 
subject which might be uppermost at the moment. Whether 
Miss Merton was annoyed or not was just then a question of no 
consequence, her whole mind being set upon telling Ruth what 
she had learned. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


513 


Florence Trevelyan joined her almost immediately on their 
leaving the tilt-yard. Miss Merton went to her uncle, and Mrs 
Clifford begged Ruth to remain with her. 

The first observation which Florence made showed what was 
in her thoughts. ‘ Well, Alice, how have you been getting on ? 
You and Miss Merton seemed to be making immense friends.’ 

Alice made a short reply, and continued her own train of 
thought, which related chiefly to the conduct of Florence. Alice 
could not doubt that Florence was sincere in her belief of Jus- 
tine’s innocence, but she still could not reconcile it to herself 
that Florence should credit Justine’s own version of her story, 
against such glaring facts as had now been related. Neither 
had Florence been open in all she had said to Alice, when 
first speaking of Justine ; she had mentioned Mrs Carter, in a 
general way, as prejudiced ; as believing idle stories from hear- 
say; whereas, from Miss Merton’s account, Mrs Carter was fully 
aware of every circumstance. Florence had not said anything 
positively untrue, but she had contrived to mystify the whole 
affair. Alice felt that she could not trust her as she had done 
before, and she longed to ask a fuller explanation, but in honour 
to Miss Merton she could not repeat what had been said. All 
these thoughts rendered her silent, and she continually looked 
round for Ruth, wishing that she would come, till Florence was 
provoked, and declared she would join a party which was before 
them, and go to the watch-tower with them, for Alice was really 
too stupid to be a companion on a picnic. This remark had no 
effect in bringing out Alice’s private thoughts, which were what 
Florence really desired to know. She only repeated her desire 
to see Ruth, and at length insisted upon sitting down to wait 
for her. ’ 

Florence would not leave her, notwithstanding her threat ; 
she seemed to have an instinctive knowledge that all would go 
wrong with her schemes if she went away. ‘ Here they are,’ 
she exclaimed, after they had waited nearly ten minutes, ‘ Ruth, 
and Mrs Clifford, and my aunt. How long you have kept us !’ 
pursued Florence, addressing Ruth, as the party came up. 

‘ Ruth,’ observed Alice, ‘ you look pale ; are you ill ? ’ 

‘ No, thank you.’ 

• If Ruth was not ill she was very nervous and hurried. Alice 
asked her again if anything was the matter. 

‘ Nothing, nothing ! ’ She put her arm within that of Florence, 
and walked on very fast. 

2 K 


LANETON EARSONAGE, 


5H 

Alice was more hurt than angry. This second appearance of 
neglect was more than she could well bear. 

They now began to descend a winding path, through the low 
shrubs and copsewood which covered the ravine between the 
castle and the watch-tower hill. The way was rough, and only 
one person could go abreast. Their, progress was not very 
speedy, and Florence and Ruth were soon out of sight. 

‘ Ruth has forgotten her sketching-book,’ said Mrs Clifford ; 
^ do, Alice, run after her, and beg them not to go so fast, we 
shall never be able to keep up with them.’ 

And Alice hastened on, thinking that she should overtake 
Ruth almost immediately ; this, however, was not so easily 
done. Ruth and Florence walked quickly, and when Alice 
reached a spot where two ways met, she found nothing to show 
her in which direction to proceed. She took the one which 
appeared the least overgrown, and proceeded for some little 
distance, though without seeing any sign of her companions. 
Then she thought it would be better to go back ; but by this time 
Mrs Clifford and the rest of the party had passed the turning, and 
taken the contrary path, so that Alice was left behind by all. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

I N the meantime Ruth had hurried Florence forward with the 
intention of outstripping the rest of the party, and when 
they reached a sufficient distance she stopped for a moment, 
and exclaimed, ‘ O Florence ! this unhappy business with 
Justine, it has made me miserable. I have done so wrong !’ 

‘ How 1 what can have happened ? ’ asked Florence, turning 
pale. 

‘ I have deceived,’ exclaimed Ruth, in a tone of bitter self- 
reproach ; ‘ I have deceived mamma, wilfully. I have all but 
told a story. What will she think of me ? ’ 

‘ Ruth, what do you mean ? what can Mrs Clifford know ? ’ 

< I cannot tell what she has heard,’ replied Ruth, ‘ but she 
must have some suspicions ; not about me though ; she would, 
never suspect me, and that makes it much worse ; and I never 
meant to deceive her ; I would not do it for all the world. 
Florence, I am so very unhappy ! ’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


S15 

‘Pray be quick/ exclaimed Florence, hastening on; ‘we 
shall be overtaken in a minute, and I must understand what 
you are talking of/ 

‘ Mamma stopped me as we left the dinner-table,’ said Ruth. 
‘ She looked very anxious and worried, and asked me if you 
had not a friend staying with you. I said, “ Yes.” Then she 
asked me if she was not a French girl, who was going to be 
governess to Agnes, and I said “ Yes ” too. Then she wanted 
to know if I had ever seen her, and I was puzzled what to say, 
when Mrs De Lacy came up to us ; she had heard just the last 
words, and said, “ Oh ! it is Mademoiselle Veray you are 
talking of? ” Mamma turned to me and said — “ That was not 
the name of the young lady whom you knew at Mrs Carter’s, 
was it, Ruth ? ” ’ 

‘ Of course you said No,’ interrupted Florence. 

‘ Yes, I did not know what else to say, but I was wretched 
directly I had done it ; and mamma smiled, and said she was 
glad to hear that it was not the same person ; and then Mrs 
De Lacy went on talking about Justine, and remarked what a 
pleasing girl she was, and asked if I did not think so. She 
said that you had recommended her, and that you had a good 
many French acquaintances ; and she seemed to think that 
Justine had never been in any situation as governess before ; 
and all the time I was obliged to let everything go on as if I 
did not know a word about it. Florence, I cannot bear to 
deceive mamma, and I must tell her.’ 

‘ If you do,’ said Florence, quickly, ‘ you will break your 
word, and destroy Justine’s prospects for life.’ 

‘ I am very sony for Justine,’ said Ruth ; ‘ I would help her 
if I possibly could, but there is nothing else to be done ; and 
for my promise, you know that it was made only for a time. I 
had no idea of always keeping a secret from my mother.’ 

‘ Then you should not have given your word,’ persisted Flor- 
ence. ‘Justine and I have depended upon you, and have 
made all our arrangements under the belief that you would not 
break it. If you betray us, Justine will be injured for life.’ 

‘ You have never told me yet how that could be, said Ruth ; 
‘ all I have heard has been from Alice.’ 

‘ I shall wait for Justine to tell you,’ replied Florence. ‘ Her 
own account will convince you of the truth, far better than 
anything I can say.’ 

‘ I cannot hear her account,’ said Ruth. 


5i6 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


‘ Go back with us this evening, and you shall ; I will 
manage it. At any rate, do not be unjust and condemn her 
unheard.’ 

‘ If I had not deceived mamma !’ said Ruth, speaking to 
herself. 

‘ It was not intentional deceit,’ replied Florence; ‘but whether 
it was so or not, this is a case of justice. Justine wrote to you 
herself, I know, begging you to give her some advice. If you 
betray her beforehand, I must say it will be, according to my 
notions, very dishonourable.’ 

‘ She might trust mamma as well as me, if it were right to 
keep her secret,’ said Ruth. 

‘ That is not the question. Justine knows nothing of your 
mamma, and she does know a great deal of you. She has the 
greatest respect for you, and I knoAv would take any hints from 
you ; even as to her management of Agnes.’ 

‘ I cannot believe that,’ said Ruth. 

‘ I do not ask you to believe it on my word. I only ask you 
to wait till you have selen Justine yourself. You have no idea 
what she thinks of you. Ruth, you cannot be so unkind as to 
persist.’ 

Ruth looked unhappy, and sat down to rest under the shade 
of a tree, but would say nothing. Florence repeated her 
arguments, and became more and more earnest. 

‘ Your mamma and my aunt are coming,’ she said, on hearing 
voices ; ‘ have you no pity, Ruth.? ’ 

But she could not extract another promise. Mrs De Lacy 
and Mrs Clifford came up to them ; the former quickened 
her pace on seeing them, and hastily addressing Florence, 
said — 

‘ I have been hearing a strange story from Mrs Clifford, my 
dear Florence, about a young French governess; Mrs Clifford 
heard it from Miss Merton ; it made me extremely uncomfort- 
able for the moment. I began to think’ 

‘ Oh ! yes, I know that story,’ interrupted Florence. ‘ You 
remember, Ruth — the French girl who was at Mrs Carter’s.’ 

Ruth rose up suddenly in great agitation. Mrs Clifford 
thought she understood the cause, and hastening to change a 
conversation which might bring painful recollections to Ruth’s 
mind, said — 

‘ I have been satisfying Mrs De Lacy’s mind ; I told her that 
Ruth had seen this young lady whom she has engaged as a 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


517 

governess, and knew that she was not the same who visited at 
Ivirs Carter’s/ 

‘ Yes, thai- day we first met at Redford ; Ruth saw her for 
an instant,’ said Florence to her aunt ; ‘ but indeed, Aunt De 
Lacy, I cannot think why Miss Merton should repeat things 
against persons who cannot defend themselves.’ 

‘ I daresay she meant no harm,’ replied Mrs De Lacy, good- 
naturedly ; ‘ but you can imagine I was a little startled for the 
moment. However, Mrs Clifford’s assurance quite satisfied me. 
‘ But how does it happen,’ she added, looking round, ‘ that 
Miss Lennox is not with you?’ 

‘ We sent her after you, Ruth, with a sketch-book,’ said Mrs 
Clifford ; ‘ you must have seen her, surely.’ 

^ We walked fast,’ observed Florence, delighted at the pros- 
pect of introducing another subject ; ‘ had we not better turn 
back and look for her ?’ 

Mrs Clifford objected to this, saying that Ruth appeared 
already so tired, she thought it would not do for her to go any 
farther. Colonel Merton just then came up alone. The ladies 
of his party, he said, were afraid of mounting the hill. He had 
seen nothing of Alice, but seemed to think it very likely she had 
mistaken her way. 

‘ Yes, just at that turning,’ exclaimed Florence, ‘ where two 
paths meet. I remember thinking at the time it was very pos- 
sible.’ 

Colonel Merton proposed to return, but Mrs Clifford ap- 
peared uneasy, and said that she would rather go herself, as 
Alice was under her charge. ‘ Ruth, my love,’ she added, ‘ you 
had better not attempt reaching the top of the hill. Wait here 
till we all come back.’ Ruth assented, and Florence insisted 
on remaining with her. 

Once more Florence and Ruth were alone. Ruth leaned her 
head upon her hand, gazing vacantly on the scene beneath 
them. The smooth grass of the watch-tower hill sloped to the 
edge of the ravine they had just crossed, on the other side of 
which the gray castle walls were discovered at intervals, amidst 
the mass of underwood that clothed the descent. Two ruined 
towers, and the top of the battlemented gateway, were seen to 
the left, and to the right rose the large trees shadowing the tilt- 
yard. Between the castle and the sea, where the sides of the 
ravine were less steep, the land projected in a sharp point, 
forming the extremity of a small bay. Several fishinjr boats 


5i8 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


lay stranded upon the beach, and two or three skiffs were pass- 
ing near the shore ; and in the far distance, where the blue line 
of the sea blended with the warm, misty tints of the horizon, 
two ships of war, crowded with sails, were slowly traversing the 
wide ocean. It was a very lovely view, and Florence remarked 
upon it, but Ruth’s only reply was a sigh that proceeded from 
the depths of her heart. Florence asked what was the matter, 
and Ruth’s distress broke forth in a torrent of words — ‘ Flor- 
ence was deceitful, misjudging ; she had entered upon a wrong 
course ; she ought certainly to give up Justine ; it was really 
wicked to mislead her aunt, besides being foolish. The truth 
might be discovered at any moment. If Miss Merton were to 
see Justine, it must be known. For herself she was wretched, 
and resolved no longer to bear the concealment.’ To all which, 
Florence replied much in the same strain as before, urging that 
Ruth could be no judge of what was right until she had spoken 
to Justine herself ; promising that if there was no opportunity 
of a conversation, Justine should write full details of every cir- 
cumstance, and ending with stating that she had no wish to 
deceive her aunt for a continuance ; she only wished her not to 
look at Justine with prejudiced eyes. When they should be in 
France, and Justine should have gained herself a place in Mrs 
De Lacy’s estimation, as she assuredly would do if Ruth would 
only give her a few notions as to the management of Agnes, the 
truth was to be told ; it was simply the dread of Mrs Carter’s 
prejudices which induced them both for the present to desire 
secrecy. This sounded very plausible. Ruth piqued herself 
upon being reasonable ; she was inclined to come round again ; 
but then the deceit. Florence perceived that she had gained a 
step, and turned to another point, one which she really felt her- 
self, and which therefore she spoke of with seriousness. It was 
the importance to Justine of obtaining a situation ; the distress 
to which she might be reduced if she could not do so. 

‘Justine will go back to her miserable home, Ruth, and be 
wretched,’ she said. ‘ No one will help her, and she will be so 
poor that she will hardly have bread to eat. She told me one 
day that there have been times when she has had nothing to do, 
that she and her father have really not known how to get a 
dinner.’ 

Ruth’s eyes filled with tears. ‘ I would give her all my 
money,’ she said, ‘ if I could ; but I have promised it in the 
village.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


519 

Florence smiled with an air of contempt, and asked if she 
thought a few shillings would keep Justine for life. 

‘ I was only wishing/ replied Ruth. ‘ I would do anything 
to help her except deceive mamma.^ 

^ Then be satisfied,’ exclaimed Florence. ‘ To-night you 
shall hear all from Justine herself, and she shall write a letter 
which you may be able to show your mamma, explaining every- 
thing ; and when we are in France, and I tell my aunt, you 
shall tell Mrs Clifford ; only be kind now.’ 

Ruth wavered ; she asked when she should have this written 
explanation. 

< Immediately — to-morrow, if possible. Indeed, you shall 
have it.’ 

At that instant a distinct shrill cry broke upon the ear. Ruth 
started up. 

‘ Florence, what was that ?’ She seized the arm of Florence 
and trembled extremely. 

‘ I don’t know ; it is an accident. Something has happened 
— hark !’ 

The cry sounded again more faintly. Colonel Merton ran 
down the hill. ‘ Did you hear it?’ he said, as he passed. 

‘ Yes. What is it ? — where ? Aunt De Lacy, what is it ?’ 

Colonel Merton had rushed on. Mrs De Lacy was beckoning 
them to follow her by a shorter and steeper path than that by 
which they had ascended. Florence dragged Ruth after her. 
Breathless and giddy, they reached the foot of the ravine. 

^ Go, Florence ! For pity’s sake, find out what has happened,’ 
exclaimed Mrs De Lacy. ‘ Take the path to the left ; follow 
Colonel Merton.’ 

Ruth’s strength was nearly exhausted ; but she gave no heed 
to Mrs De Lacy’s entreaties that she would remain behind ; 
and still holding the hand of Florence, they pursued their way 
amidst the tangled briers along the narrow pathway worn along 
the top of the ravine. A large oak-tree stood on the bank, itc 
gnarled trunk and knotted branches spreading themselves out 
so as completely to obstruct both the pathway and the view. 
Florence held by the trunk, and with difficulty scrambled over 
the brambles which grew upon the steep edge of the descent. 
Voices were heard very near below them. 

‘ Be quick, Ruth, pray ! ’ she exclaimed. 

Ruth’s dress was caught in the briers ; it was rent completely 
across, and they hurried forward. 


52C 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


‘Stop, Ruth — hark !’ and P'lorence stepped forward upon a 
bank which commanded the whole length of the ravine. A 
faint scream made Ruth spring to her side, without the power 
of asking the cause. 

Below, upon a smooth space of grass, Alice lay, pale as 
death, her head resting upon Mrs Clifford’s lap ; her eyes nearly 
closed, and the marks of severe bruises upon her face. Colonel 
Merton and several gentlemen were near, and on the summit of 
the castle wall above there stood a party anxiously looking on, 
and entreating to be told how they might render assistance. 
Ruth’s first impulse was to slide down the bank and reach her 
mamma ; but the descent was not practicable, and when she 
spoke no one answered or noticed her. Alice was not senseless, 
for she gave signs of suffering extreme pain. The sound of her 
voice, though it was heard only in a groan, relieved Ruth’s ex- 
treme anxiety ; whatever had happened, Alice was not dead, 
Mrs Clifford retained her usual calm self-possession, and de- 
cided at once what it would be best to do. A pathway was 
hastily cleared by some of the gentlemen, and Colonel Merton 
then lifted Alice gently in his arms and carried her, though 
slowly and with difficulty, up the steep bank. 

Florence and Ruth could see no more. When the last of the 
party had disappeared, Ruth sat down on the grass and burst 
into tears. Florence looked about to discover how the accident 
had happened. 

‘ She must have been clambering over the wall and have 
fallen,’ she said. ‘ Yes, there are the marks all the way from 
the top. See, Ruth, above.’ 

Ruth turned, and saw at once what had occurred. Alice, 
finding herself alone, had amused herself by exploring the ruins, 
and having no one to guide her, had ventured upon a danger- 
ous part ; the loose stones had given way, and she had been 
precipitated over the walls half way down the bank. The 
height of the walls at that particular spot was not very great, 
and her descent had been broken by the underwood ; but a 
large stone lay close by the spot on which she had been ex- 
tended, showing the fearful peril from which, by a merciful 
Providence, she had been in a great measure saved. 

Ruth passed her hand for an instant before her eyes ; partly 
to shut out from view the horrible probability which imagina- 
tion presented, partly from the deep feeling of awe, which made 
her utter a silent thanksgiving for Alice’s preservation. Then. 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


5-21 


without speaking another word, she turned slowly away and 
retraced her steps to the spot where Mrs De Lacy was waiting 
for them. 


CHAPTER LV. 

T here were lights shining through the windows of the 
Manor the whole of that night ; moving, flickering, now 
clear, now dim, at intervals entirely disappearing ; but there 
was one which never changed ; it burned with a dull flame, 
immovable as the dark, silent figure which sat by the table on 
which it was placed, neither reading, nor speaking, nor praying, 
save in the secrecy of the sorrowful heart, open only to the Eye 
of God. Lady Catharine watched by Alice’s bedside, though 
she was told that watching was unnecessary. Alice had 
received a severe injury, but she was young and of a vigorous 
constitution, and many who had suffered more severely had 
speedily recovered — a night’s rest might do wonders. This was 
the opinion of Lady Catharine’s medical attendant, and there 
was nothing in it to excite alarm ; yet Lady Catharine resisted 
all Marsham’s persuasions to leave the task of nursing to her, 
and not consenting even to rest on the sofa so as to be within 
call, which was all that was really required, devoted the weary 
hours of the night to meditation and prayer. There was much 
to engage her mind. We say that death is near us at every 
moment ; but perhaps we seldom actually realise the truth, 
until we have been unexpectedly brought in contact Avith it. 
Alice had escaped an imminent peril ; but the escape brought 
many most painful thoughts to Lady Catharine’s remembrance.- 
It almost forced her to recall the distressing doubts which had 
harassed her since her conversation with Mr Clifford. One of 
the common arguments which she herself had often used, and 
had heard others use, to bring young persons to a sense of their 
religious obligations, was ‘ If you are not fit for confirmation 
and the Holy Communion, you are not fit to die.’ Alice had been 
all but pronounced unfit for confirmation ; and God had been 
pleased to bring her awfully near to death. However insen- 
sible she might be to the risk she had run, and the Providence 
which had preserved her. Lady Catharine saw it full well. With 
that one most terrible doubt as to the state of Alice’s heart. 


522 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


came the others which, from Lady Catharine’s sincerity of pur- 
pose, necessarily accompanied them ; and the most rigid earthly 
scrutiniser of human motives must have been satisfied by her 
survey of her own conduct with regard to Alice. On no occa- 
sion had it been made more carefully or more truly ; for Mr 
Clifford’s suggestions had taken root in a mind which, how- 
ever naturally prejudiced, was never wilfully shut against truth. 

They were sad thoughts for the still, silent night, and when 
morning dawned. Lady Catharine’s face told the mental as well 
as physical fatigue which she had been enduring. But her 
spirit was still unfailing ; she gave all the necessary orders for 
the day ; took her breakfast as usual, and not till eleven o’clock, 
when the medical man had again seen Alice, and pronounced 
that she was going on well, allowed herself to have two or three 
hours’ rest. And during all that time no one would have 
imagined that Lady Catharine had any thoughts or any fears 
beyond those which the state of circumstances might naturally 
occasion. When she went to Alice and asked whether she 
would like to have prayers read for her, or would prefer repeat- 
ing them for herself, no one would have supposed that the answ'er 
was listened for with the most intense anxiety, as an indication 
of the tone of Alice’s mind. And when Alice asked for a book, 
and Lady Catharine remarked that she had not herself read the 
Psalms and Lessons for the day, no one would have discovered 
any change of countenance to show the sinking of heart with 
which the reply was received — ‘ I don’t think I can attend to 
those things now. I should like something amusing.’ 

Alice was suffering much pain at the time : possibly she 
might not have been able to fix her thoughts seriously; but 
Lady Catharine read in the words that the will was wanting, 
and she turned away because Alice should not see her tears. 

‘Has any one been here from the Parsonage, Marsham?’ 
said Alice, groaning with pain, as she tried to move. 

‘ A message to know how you were, miss ; nothing else.’ 

‘ Some one will come, I hope,’ said Alice. ‘ I wish Ruth 
would. Give me a book, please, Marsham.’ 

The book was given, and the pages were turned over ; but 
Alice’s head was not in any state for reading. It was swollen 
from a severe bruise, and ached and throbbed till she could not 
bear it ; and again she inquired for Ruth. 

‘ Lady Catharine wanted to know if you would like to be 
read to just now, Miss Lennox,’ said Marsham. ‘ Please to 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE, 


523 

keep your hand down, and be still ; the doctor says you must 
be quiet.’ 

‘ I can’t, Marsham, my head is so very bad. Lady Catha- 
rine wanted to read the Psalms and Lessons ; but I can’t 
attend.’ 

‘ Her ladyship would have read anything you liked,’ ob- 
served Marsham. ‘ She was all in a fidget to do something for 
you.’ 

‘ She is not here, is she V said Alice, in a whisper, and trying 
to look round. 

‘ Oh, no, miss ; she has gone to lie down ; you know she sat 
up with you all night.’ 

Alice looked surprised. * Did she ? I was so stupid, so dizzy, 
I did not know who was here exactly. Is she very tired V 

‘ More so a great deal than she will say, I suspect,’ said 
Marsham. ^ Her ladyship is not a person to make complaints, 
you know. Miss Lennox.’ 

^ It was very kind of her. Oh, my head ! Marsham, do 
make the bandage loose.’ 

‘ My lady would not let anybody do anything for you but 
herself^ if she could help it,’ said Marsham, in a tone of some 
irritation. ‘ There is nobody like her for a nurse when any- 
thing is the matter.’ 

‘ Yes, I daresay. Marsham, how you hurt me ! ’ 

Marsharn loosened the bandage, but not the more gently for 
Alice’s exclamation. ‘ My lady was always famed for a kind 
heart,’ continued Marsham. ‘ I have lived with her now fifteen 
years, and I never knew her once hear of any one being ill 
without helping to the very utmost.’ 

‘ That is'why she wants to nurse me then,’ said Alice, shortly, 
but less pettishly. 

^ O Miss Lennox ; you don’t think that 1 ’ 

^ No ! why not ? ’ asked Alice. 

‘ Because you know you are different from anybody else with my 
lady. We all say, very often, that it is quite wonderful how fond 
she is of you ; but then she was so fond of your poor mamma.’ 

‘Fond of me!’ repeated Alice to herself; and then she 
added aloud, ‘ Marsham, do you remember my mamma well?’ 

‘ Remember her, Miss Lennox ! yes, indeed. It would be 
strange indeed if I could forget her. Such a sweet face she 
had, and her ways so gentle !’ 

This was said with rather a severe glance at Alice, which, 


524 


LAN ETON PARSONAGE. 


however, was not noticed. — ‘ I used to take her fruit from my 
lady nearly every day,' continued Marsham. ‘ It was my lady’s 
own wish that I should go, because she said I could tell better 
than any one else what was wanted. There she used to be 
sitting up by the window, with the little round table, that my 
lady gave her on her birthday, always by her side, and her 
books upon it, and the greenhouse flowers put in so beautifully. 
My lady dressed the flowers for her every day when she went 
to see her. Your poor mamma had a great fancy for flowers ; 
and when she ‘ took to her bed she used to have them always 
lying by her. And then my lady would sit by and look at her ; 
and sometimes I used to catch a few words when I came in, 
and it was almost always about you. Miss Lennox.’ 

Alice again put her hand to her head to alter the bandage : 
but this time she did not complain. 

‘ One day, I remember especially,’ continued Marsham, ‘your 
poor mamma had been very ill — so faint they could hardly keep 
her alive ; but she was a little better, and my lady was putting 
eau de Cologne and water to her forehead. Your mamma 
looked up and smiled, and said something about “ always 
kind,” and just then you peeped in at the door, and my lady 
made a sign to you to go away, and when you were gone I 
heard her say, “ You will not mind my sending Alice away, it 
is only for your sake.” Your mamma’s answer was spoken out 
so strong. Miss Lennox. “ She is your child,” she said ; and 
my lady stooped down, and whispered something very low, 
which I could not hear-; but your mamma answered, “ God 
bless you and reward you,” and then you were called in and my 
lady kissed you.’ 

‘ I think I remember the kiss,’ said Alice, thoughtfully. 

‘ My lady’s manner changed to you from that day. Miss 
Alice,’ continued Marsham. ‘ It seemed to me as if she began 
to give you the love which was your poor mamma’s. I don’t 
mean that she did not go on loving her ; but it was in a dif- 
ferent way. Your mamma was so ill, there seemed to be no 
reason to care about any common things for her ; only just to 
make her as comfortable as could be for the time. There were 
no troubles about money and dress, and such things for her ; 
she was gone beyond them. She looked like an angel ; and 
my lady used sometimes to say to me that she could hardly 
fancy it right to talk about common things before her ; and so 
all her anxiety, in a way, went to you, Miss Alice.’ 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


5^3 

Alice shut her eyes ; it might have been either from pain of 
body or of mind. 

‘ Shall you be going to sleep now, do you think.?’ inquired 
hlarsham. 

‘ I don’t know — I am not sleepy. When will Lady Catharine 
come back .? ’ 

‘ Not for a long time, I hope,’ answered Marsham. ^ She will 
wear herself out if she goes on as she has begun.’ 

‘ Then, Marsham, you may give me the Prayer Book, and I 
will try to read the Psalms.’ 

Marsham gave it, with an injunction that she was to leave off 
directly she found the reading tire her head ; and Alice soon 
laid the book down, and fell into a disturbed sleep. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

L ady Catharine was sitting in Alice’s morning room; 

it was the first day that Alice had been allowed to leave 
her bed. It gave her much pain still to be dressed, and she 
was weakened by all she had suffered. A short illness will 
sometimes make a great change in a young person, and Alice 
was looking veiy unwell. She lay upon the sofa at work, and 
seemed to be thinking more than usual. Lady Catharine re- 
garded her silently and anxiously. Now and then Alice asked 
a few questions, rather, it seemed, because she thought she 
ought to talk, than from any wish for conversation, and fre- 
quently had recourse to a book. When Lady Catharine was 
called out of the room, Alice drew a paper from her work- 
basket, and read it with much attention. It was in Madeline’s 
handwriting. Lady Catharine’s re-entrance made her fold it 
up, and put it again in its hiding-place. In her haste she 
threw down the basket, and scattered the contents upon the 
floor. She was not able to pick them up herself, but Lady 
Catharine did, and as she took up the papers, she said — 

< Is this from Madeline V 

< Yes ; ’ and Alice coloured. It was something she sent me 
yesterday ; will you give it to me .? ’ she held out her hand, 
which trembled a little. 


576 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Lady Catharine took hold of it affectionately, and said, 
‘ Poor child !’ and kissed her. 

Alice held the paper as if fearing either that it should be 
taken from her, or that some inquiry might be made about it. 

Lady Catharine smoothed her pillow, and proposed that she 
should have some grapes, which had just been brought in from 
the hot-house. 

Alice said ‘ Yes ; ’ and thanked her, and looked as if she 
would have said more, but was afraid. 

Lady Catharine was not quick at interpreting looks. She 
heard only Alice’s ‘ Thank you ; ’ and it was cold to her warm 
feelings. She sighed, and sat down ; and after a little while 
left the room again. She had not been long absent, before a 
lighter and freer step was heard in the gallery ; a gentle knock 
was given at the door of Alice’s room, and, scarcely waiting for 
the permission to be given, Madeline opened it. The change 
in Alice’s manner was instantaneous. Madeline was told how 
Alice had slept, how she was then feeling, whether she had 
enjoyed her dinner ; and being satisfied upon these points, she 
produced some particularly choice flowers, gathered from her 
own garden. Lady Catharine would have had real cause to 
sigh if she had witnessed the hearty gratitude with which this 
trifling present was received ; yet it might have proved to her, 
that, whatever might be Alice’s defect of manner to herself, 
there was no real coldness of heart. 

‘And you have been reading the extracts?’ said Madeline, 
observing the corner of the paper half-hidden in the work- 
basket. ‘ I Avas glad papa let me copy them for you. Are 
they not very nice ?’ 

‘ Yes, I think so ; I have not read much of them. Lady 
Catharine said your papa preached a beautiful sermon on Sun- 
day.’ 

‘ I longed for you to hear it,’ continued Madeline. 

‘ Did you ?’ and Alice faintly smiled ; ‘ it would have been 
no good.’ 

‘ Oh ! but, Alice, pray don’t talk so. I thought all that 
papa says would have brought you round.’ 

‘ It is very kind in you, Maddy,’ replied Alice ; ‘ I really am 
very much obliged to you for taking so much trouble, writ- 
ing all this out for me ; but as things are fixed they must 
remain.’ 

‘ And Ruth is so strange too,’ observed Madeline. ‘ I hoped 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


527 

she would have talked to you, but I can scarcely make her 
attend to me. She sits thinking all day nearly.’ 

‘ Ruth knows it is best to let things remain as they are,^ re- 
peated Alice. 

‘ Have you asked her?’ inquired Madeline. 

^ No, I have only seen her for a few minutes, twice. We 
did talk about the confirmation then. Had you any letters to- 
day ?’ 

This last question was put very abruptly ; and Madeline 
hastily answered in the negative, and then observed, ‘ I think 
Ruth would agree with me, and papa too.’ 

‘ It can make no difference,’ replied Alice ; ‘ I may be very 
wicked, but I am not a hypocrite.’ 

‘ If you wish to be confirmed, there is no hypocrisy in saying 
so,’ observed Madeline. 

Alice shook her head, and answered, that if she ever in- 
tended to be good, she would be good thoroughly. Lady 
Catharine had been so kind lately, that she could not pretend 
anything with her ; besides, she was ill ; she should not be 
well enough for the confirmation. 

Madeline sat for some minutes with an air of great disap- 
pointment ; then, leaving her seat, she stood beside Alice, and 
looking at her earnestly and sorrowfully, said, ‘ If you were ill, 
Alice, very ill indeed, you would be extremely sorry not to have 
been confirmed.’ 

‘ I do not see why I should be much more sorry about it 
then than now,’ answered Alice. 

‘ Don’t you ? It seems to me as if you must be. If you 
were confirmed you might receive the Holy Communion.’ 

Alice raised herself on the sofa, and said eagerly, Maddy, 
do not talk of that.’ 

‘ But I must, Alice ; you must let me indeed,’ continued 
Madeline. ‘ I would try not to vex you, but it will be such a 
weight on my mind if you do not let me tell you ; ’ and, finding 
Alice did not again interrupt her, she went on ; ‘ the evening 
you were brought home I seemed to think only about your pain ; 
I did not imagine there could be any danger ; but the next day 
Marsham told mamma she thought you were more hurt than 
people fancied, and she was afraid of fever. Mamma said this 
to papa before me ; I don’t think she quite meant me to hear, 
but I happened to be coming into the room. I was dreadfully 
frightened, and I began talking to papa all about you, and 


528 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


about — you must not mind, Alice ; you know it was only our 
fear — about — that perhaps you might not get well. He seemed 
very unhappy indeed. I had never seen him in such a way 
before, and at last something was mentioned about the con- 
firmation ; and then, Alice, do you know, I saw the tears in 
his eyes — real tears ; I had never seen any man cry before, and 
I scarcely believed till then that men could cry ; but papa was 
just like one of us then, and he said it was such a grief to him 
to think that you had not appeared to care about your con- 
firmation, because it showed that your mind was not in a right 
state ; and he went on to say that it would have been a great 
blessing if you had been confirmed, or if you were really fit for 
it and anxious about it ; because then, if you were to be worse, 
he might give you the Holy Communion.’ 

‘ If I was not confirmed?’ inquired Alice. 

‘ Yes, because it does not say in the Prayer Book, that per- 
sons must be confirmed first ; only that they must be, if they 
can.’ 

Alice appeared to be struck by a new and very serious idea, 
but one which perplexed her. ‘ I should not be sure of going 
to Heaven,’ she replied, ‘ even if I were to receive the Com- 
munion.’ 

‘ That was what I said,’ exclaimed Madeline. ‘ I could not 
understand papa at first. I could not think how it could be of 
such great consequence ; but papa grew so very, very earnest. 
He said that, of course, receiving the Ploly Communion would 
not save us ; and if we received it unprepared it would be harm ' 
to us instead of good : but that none of us knew the great 
blessing we missed by neglecting it. And then he read to me 
parts of the sixth chapter of St John, which is all about it ; and 
certainly the words seemed much more solemn than they had 
e^'er done before. They made me feel as if I could not bear to 
die before I had received it, and as if I could not bear that you, 
or any one I loved, should do so either.’ 

‘And did you come to talk about this to-day?’ inquired 
Alice. 

‘ Partly. I was afraid ; but still it was in my mind so much, 

I thought I must say it. O Alice, dear Alice ! if you would 
only think of these things !’ 

The conversation was interrupted by the return of Lady 
Catharine. Madeline rose hurriedly and wished Alice good- 
bye ; then, recollecting herself, inquired if she could take back 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


5^9 


any message or parcel to the Parsonage ; and hearing that there 
was nothing to be said, only the report that Alice was much the 
same, she departed. 

Alice closed -her eyes but not to sleep ; rather to repeat, and 
think upon, and vainly try to forget the eager winning words, 
‘ O Alice ! dear Alice ! if you would only think of these 
things !’ 


CHAPTER EVIL 



LICE’S first visitor from the Parsonage the following day 


Nx. was Ruth. They met in Alice’s bedroom, for she was 
not able to leave it till late in the morning. Ruth came in very 
differently from Madeline — slowly, and with a very grave pre- 
occupied air. She asked the ordinary questions as to how 
Alice had slept, and whether she was in much pain ; and then 
she put a shabby-looking paper into Alice’s hand, saying ; ‘ Read 
that, and tell me what you think of it. It came from Mrs De 
Lacy’s housekeeper, and contained an apology for returning a 
parcel which Mrs Clifford had forwarded to Sheldon, as Mrs 
De Lacy and her family were gone.’ The note dropped from 
Alice’s hand. 

‘ Gone ! ’ she exclaimed, ‘ gone ! where to ? — what does it 
mean? — without your hearing from Justine?’ 

‘ Yes, without a word. I told you Florence promised she 
should write ; but I have not had a line or a message.’ 

Alice’s face expressed a strange mixture of feeling ; satisfac- 
tion for a moment, then regret. 

‘And what do you mean to do ?’ she inquired. 

‘ I don’t know ; I cannot think.’ 

‘Justine must be gone with them,’ said Alice. 

‘ I suppose so ; but one cannot say.’ 

‘ Gone as Agnes De Lacy’s governess,’ said Alice, her coun- 
tenance becoming even more grave than Ruth’s. 

‘ Yes, I hope it is all right ; one could not have prevented it ; 
and, of course, they will write ; ’ but Ruth did not say this as 
if her conscience was clear, and she repeated a second time, ‘ I 
hope it is all right.’ 

‘ It cannot be,’ sa'd Alice ; ‘ I must try and tell you now, 


53^ LANETON PARSONAGE. 

Ruth, what I could not yesterday ; what I heard from ^kUss 
IMerton.’ 

Ruth brought a chair to the bed-side, and listened attentively, 
yet with the air of one who has no wish to be convinced. Alice 
was always suffering most in the morning, and her head ached 
and was very confused. She told her story with difficulty, and 
without being clear in the several details. Ruth cross- 
questioned her rather captiously, and not without commenting 
severely upon Miss Merton’s imprudence and want of charity 
in saying so much to a perfect stranger. ‘ She could not 
thoroughly believe second-hand stories,’ she said ; ‘ Alice had 
heard from Miss Merton what Miss Merton had heard from 
some one else, and what some one else had heard perhaps from 
another party. It would be a great satisfaction to have 
Justine’s own version to put against all these accusations.’ 

‘And you expect it ?’ inquired Alice. 

‘ Yes, certainly ; I can account for not hearing. They set 
off suddenly, and had not time to write.’ 

‘Then you will say nothing till you do hear?’ continued 
Alice. 

The question made Ruth shrink. She began to reason, as 
she always did when unpleasant things were brought before 
her. She said why it would be right to tell her mamma at 
once, and why it would not be right ; but the one right was put 
in few words, the other in many ; and the many gained the 
victory, Ruth believing still that she had stated the case fairly. 
‘ Florence,’ she said, ‘ had certainly appeared candid and well- 
intentioned, in all that had passed when they met at St Cuth- 
bert’s, and Justine might be open to good influence, even at a 
distance. It would be a pity to throw them off, unless it was 
absolutely necessary. When all the statements on both sides 
could be placed before Mrs Clifford and Lady Catharine, then 
would be the time to acknowledge what they had done ; till 
then it would not be fair. It would be best therefore to wait.’ 

This was the determination with which they parted, Ruth to 
return to the Parsonage, Alice to be assisted by Marsham in 
dressing for her.early dinner. 

Ruth seemed strangely forgetful, strangely unmindful of the 
tacit falsehood which had pressed so heavily on her conscience 
on the day of the picnic at St Cuthbert’s. But she was not 
really so. She was often very unhappy ; the more so, because, 
even according to her own false views of duty, her motives were 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


531 


not as pure as they had been. Ruth was becoming afraid of 
booking at her own conduct; afraid of acknowledging what she 
had been a party to. Every fresh step which Florence took, 
tind every new light which was thrown upon Justine’s character, 
told against them. Ruth said to Alice that it was only possible 
Justine might be gone with Mrs De Lacy, but she had no 
doubt of the fact herself. She implied also that Miss Merton’s 
testimony was not fully to be credited, but she knew that it was 
supported by Mrs Carter, and probably by Mary Vernon. 
Still Ruth’s cleverness came to her aid ; and crushing the pang 
which accompanied the recollection of her deceit to her mothei , 
by persuading herself that all would be well when she was able 
to acknowledge it, she carried on her plausible arguments till 
she really fancied herself convinced that, to use her old 
favourite phrase, she was acting for the best. Ruth’s self- 
deception was great, and her mode of self-examination did not 
enable her to discover what she was really doing. The past 
v as really past to her. Because it was beyond recall, she was 
apt to forget that it was not therefore beyond repentance. We 
travel away from our actions, and because we do not still see 
them, think that they have ceased to be. Alas ! for us, if we do 
not awaken to a sense of the truth, until we are brought face to 
face again with our own lives before the judgment-seat of God. 

All this time Ruth was exercising an influence which she 
little suspected. 

Madeline’s earnestness was not entirely thrown away upon 
Alice. She had to bear hours of pain, and watchfulness, 
and solitude ; and in those hours she had leisure for thought. 
She knew that she had been saved from a great peril, and she 
was not unthankful for the mercy ; and at times she began to 
ponder very seriously upon the uncertainty of life, the danger 
of procrastination, and the peace, and hope, and comfort 
which Madeline seemed to find in religion. ‘Almost shf, 
was persuaded to be a Christian ; ’ a Christian, that is, in the 
inward devotion of the heart, as well as in that real and solemn 
sense in which all are Christians who have been admitted into 
covenant with God by baptism. • But there was a stumbling- 
block in her way. Alice gave a true character of herself 
when she said that she was no hypocrite. She might be 
indifferent, and take the ordinances of religion as things of course, 
uut she could not bring herself, after what had passed, to make 
any peculiar profession of sincerity, unless she intended to act 


532 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


up to it. Slie had deceived Lady Catharine with regaid to her 
acquaintance with Florence. She could not go to be confirmed 
with a clear conscience, unless this fault was acknowledged. 
But the acknowledgment would bring to light all which Ruth 
still thought fit to keep secret, and therefore it could not be 
made. Alice was in a measure relieved when she came to this 
decision. It set the question of her confirmation nearly at rest. 
June was passing on rapidly ; day after day went by, and 
nothing was heard either of Florence or Justine. Alice said to 
Madeline that there were reasons why she could not be con- 
firmed ; that she had made up her mind not to be ; to Ruth 
she said nothing, because the subject was disagreeable to both ; 
to Mr Clifford she was even more reserved than before ; to 
Lady Catharine she was coldly acquiescent ; and in her own 
heart she was wretched. 

This state of things lasted for nearly a fortnight. During 
that time Alice made considerable progress towards recovery, 
and was allowed to go out of doors. She moved with difficulty, 
and was soon tired, but the change was pleasant to her ; and 
if she had been happy in her mind, she might have begun to 
look upon her position in life with greater satisfaction. Lady 
Catharine’s attention was unceasing ; she was at Alice’s call at 
any hour, and on any occasion. Nothing appeared a trouble ; 
no request was' considered inconvenient. Illness destroyed the 
formality of a strict household ; and as Alice could not 
offend against laws which she was not now required to keep. 
Lady Catharine’s genuine kindness of heart had its full 
scope. 

Alice was touched by this unselfish affection. It would pro- 
bably have gone far in breaking down the barriers of reserve 
between herself and Lady Catharine, if there had been no cir- 
cumstances to throw a restraint over all which she herself did 
and said. The thoughts which were working in her breast, the 
longings for a stricter, holier life, the repentance for past negli- 
gences, would have been welcomed as the sunshine of life, but 
they were never known. And Lady Catharine pursued her daily 
course of unremitting, affectionate watchfulness, burdened with 
the secret dread that all the mercy which had been shown to 
Alice was unacknowledged — that her heart was insensible to reli- 
gion, and that if death were then to meet her, it would find her 
unprepared, unrepentant, without faith in her Saviour, without 
a wish or thought for confirmation, without any desire for that 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


533 

chief support of a Christian in life or death — the inestimable 
gift of God in the Holy Communion. 

Persons who saw her said that Lady Catharine looked 
harassed, and was grown more melancholy than ever. No 
wonder. Anxiety for Alice w'as corroding all the enjoyment of 
her life. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

‘ T T is growing late, Alice, my dear,’ said Lady Catharine, as 
Ruth and Madeline were preparing to draw Alice again 
in her chair, round the garden, one foggy afternoon. ‘ Are you 
not tired.? You have been out a long time.’ 

‘ A little while longer, if you please,’ said Alice, entreatingly. 
‘ I don’t feel very tired, and it is extremely pleasant.’ 

‘ You ought not to be at all tired, my love; you have not had 
much to make you so. Mr Nichols says you ought to improve 
faster.’ 

‘ I am a great deal better. I shall be able to walk alone 
before very long,’ replied Alice. 

‘ I hope before the confirmation,’ Madeline was going to say ; 
but she checked, herself. 

Lady Catharine looked unhappy, and walked aside a few 
paces ; then returning, she told Alice that she was going into 
the village for a little while, and that when she came back it 
would be quite time for her to go in. 

The conversation did not proceed very freely even when Lady 
Catharine was gone ; for the confirmation was now a forbidden 
subject, and the allusion to it was painful to them all. At 
another time it would have afforded a fertile subject for discus- 
sion. Alice was interested in many of the village girls who 
were going to be confirmed ; but she did not choose to make 
inquiries about them. The restraint was destroying the 
pleasure of their being together, and when Alice said she would 
go in, no one objected. Marsham, Alice’s constant attendant, 
was not in the house, and whilst waiting for her to assist in 
helping Alice up-stairs, and taking off her walking-dress, they 
all sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Alice did not 
consider whether it was prudent or not, and Ruth and Madeline 
had never yet learned the lessons of caution which sad experi- 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


53 V 

ence of illness alone can give. The cold air blew pleasantly 
upon them, and when Ruth said that they were silting in a 
draught, Alice declared it was very agreeable. Lady Catharine 
returned, went into the garden, and heard that Miss Lennox 
was gone in. This sounded very prudent, and Lady Catharine 
was satisfied, and went away again to attend to some other 
duties, hlarsham also came home, and supposing that Alice 
was safely in her room, as she was not in the garden, sat down 
to tea, and did not think of going to her till the bell rang. 

By the time the striking of the clock reminded Ruth that 
they must go back to the Parsonage Alice was chilly and 
uncomfortable, and more inclined to wish for a fire than to 
delight in a cool breeze. 

When Alice went to bed her limbs were aching ; she had a 
violent pain in her chest, and considerable fever. Lady Catha- 
rine was uneasy, and Marsham angry. Alice was generally 
considered strong ; but no constitution, as Marsham emphatic- 
ally declared, can stand sitting in a draught. She was not 
at all better the next morning. Orders were given that she 
should be kept in bed, and she had no wish to rebel ; only she 
wished for society, and asked many times for Madeline and 
Ruth. They were later in their visit this day than usual. 
Lady Catharine told Alice that Mr Clifford was gone to see his 
sister-in-law. Mrs Clifford was not very well, and Ruth and 
Madeline did not like to leave her. The information was very 
disappointing to Alice ; and if she had ever doubted the truth 
of anything spoken at the Parsonage, she could have doubted 
this. Mrs Clifford could not want them both ; so unselfish as 
she was, surely she could spare one of them for an hour ! 
Alice asked again and again whether anything or any person 
had come from the Parsonage, and fretted hereself into an in- 
creased fever at the continual answer in the negative. At 
length she did learn something ; one of the housemaids, when 
Marsham was absent, told her that Mr Clifford had called that 
morning very early, immediately after breakfast. She heard 
him say that he was sorry he was obliged to go to Mrs Mor- 
daunt's. He had a long talk with Lady Catharine for nearly 
an hour — and some one from the Parsonage had brought word 
in the course of the day that Mrs Clifford and the young ladies 
had seemed very much worried after the letters came in. The 
curiosity of Alice — a curiosity not unmingled with fear — was ex- 
cited to the highest pitch by this information. It was told her 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


535 


shortly, and when the servant was gone she had no one of whom 
she could venture to ask questions. Marsham was more strict 
and particular than even Lady Catharine herself ; and to all 
Alice’s inquiries as to news from the Parsonage, replied she 
must keep herself quiet, or she would be dreadfully ill. Lady 
Catharine came in and out of the room very frequently ; but 
her face was not to be read, though her manner w'as altered ; 
and sometimes she stood and looked fixedly at Alice for a few 
moments, and in her deep, sorrowful voice, asked how she was ; 
but she did not offer to read to her, and she did not sit by the 
bed working. The spirit of restlessness and disquietude seemed 
to possess her. Alice bore with this uncertainty the greater 
part of the day ; but every hour increased her uneasiness. 
Letters, she thought, could only mean letters from France, prob- 
ably containing some unpleasant news from Florence. Lady 
Catharine’s strange silence, she was sure, was caused by some- 
thing on her mind, and it must be something about her. Mr 
Clifford must have heard from Ruth how they had been acting ; 
he must have called in the morning to speak to Lady Catharine 
about it. Alice had nothing to distract her mind from these 
conjectures, except the pain in her head and the oppression on 
her chest, which began rapidly to increase. The measures 
which were taken to relieve this were a little occupation to her ; 
but she could not sleep, and her inquiries for Ruth became more 
and more urgent. She was always impatient, and illness only 
increased the feeling ; and at length she summoned courage to 
ask Lady Catharine if anything was the matter. Lady Catha- 
rine’s cold answer was, ‘ Nothing that I can talk to you about 
now, my dear,’ and Alice’s suspicions became a certainty. She 
mentioned Ruth’s name, and Lady Catharine’s face was ominous 
of evil. Ruth might possibly come in the evening, she said ; 
but Alice must rest contented without her. Alice could bear it 
no longer, and in her agitation she forgot all prudence, and en- 
treated that Ruth might come to her, if it were only for half an 
hour. She could not be happy ; she could not possibly sleep 
till she had seen her. Lady Catharine gave no promise ; but 
at length went away, leaving Alice with a hope that she was 
about to send a message to bring Ruth to the Manor. 

Alice became quieter then ; she was really ill, and unequal 
to much thought ; and in the expectation of Ruth’s arrival, her 
mind sank into that passive state w’hich helplessness and weak- 
ness will sometimes bring. 


536 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


As the time drew near when Ruth might come, her excite- 
ment revived again. She listened to every sound, fancying that 
she heard footsteps and voices when there were none ; and 
made Marsham prop up her pillows and help her to sit upright. 
She was so eager, and her cheek was so flushed, that Mar- 
sham’s injunctions to keep quiet were repeated oftener than 
ever. All Alice would say was, ‘ I am quiet ; I only want to 
see Ruth. Is not that her step in the passage ? Pray, Mar- 
sham, look.’ Marsham soon gave up looking ; for Ruth did 
not come, though a much longer time elapsed than would have 
brought her from the Parsonage. When Alice heard at last 
that Miss Clifford was in the house, but that Lady Catharine 
was talking to her in the breakfast-room, she burst into tears, 
declaring that they were all cruel — Rutb worse than any ; and 
Marsham went away, thinking that Lady Catharine’s authority 
was necessary. Alice’s uncertainty lasted for about ten minutes 
longer ; at the expiration of that time Ruth tapped gently at 
the door. She came into the room with her bonnet on and 
her veil down, and Alice could not clearly see her face. She 
went up to the bed. Alice flung her arm round her and ex- 
claimed — 

‘ Thank you ; now it will all be well. Tell me the whole, 
Ruth, at once.’ 

Ruth sat down without uttering a word. 

‘ Take off your bonnet — I can’t see you — the room is dark — > 
I want to look at you,’ said Alice. 

Ruth untied the strings of her bonnet. 

‘ But the veil — I can’t see you now ; please take it all off. 
Ruth, dear, how strange you are ! ’ 

Ruth put up her hand, but it shook violently. 

Alice touched her. ‘ Ruth, pray speak — what is it ? ’ 

Ruth slowly took off her bonnet, turning aside her head as 
she did so, and said, in a constrained voice, ‘ Alice, are you 
better ? ’ 

‘ Yes ; but Ruth, don’t speak so ; you frighten me. Why 
won’t you look at me ? ’ 

Ruth looked, and tried to force a smile. Her cheek was 
quite colourless, except where there was a red dark line under 
the eye, which, with the swollen eyelids, marked that she had 
been crying. 

Alice became calmer in manner as she was more frightened. 
‘ Ruth,’ she said, ‘ you have had bad news ? ’ 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


537 


‘ We are all well at the Parsonage/ was Ruth’s answer. 
^ We think about you very much.’ 

‘ But you are altered ; I can’t understand you. You have 
had news, I am sure you have, from Florence or Justine.’ 

Alice was looking steadily at Ruth as she spoke ; she saw 
her countenance change. ‘ It is about them ; there is some- 
thing. O Ruth ! tell me.’ 

‘ Alice, you must be quiet ; Lady Catharine will never forgive 
me.’ 

‘ But I must know ; ’ and Alice’s eyes flashed, and she 
grasped Ruth’s hand with an unnatural strength. ‘Ruth, if 
you do not tell me I shall go wild. What have you heard 1 
Where is Justine ? ’ 

Ruth shuddered. She bent her head upon the pillow, and 
said, ‘Justine is dead !’ 

The next instant the bell in Alice’s room rang violently ; she 
Iiad fainted. 


CHAPTER LIX. 


HEN Ruth was recalled to Alice’s chamber, she met 



V V Lady Catharine at the door. Her manner was gravely 
upbraiding. ‘ I trusted you, Ruth,’ she said, ‘because I thought 
you had common sense and self-command ; but you have been 
most imprudent. Alice, however, will not be satisfied without 
seeing you again, and you must go to her. Remember her life 
even may depend upon your caution.’ She moved aside, and 
Ruth passed her in silence. 

Alice now lay quite still, and spoke feebly ; but there was a 
spot of crimson on her cheek, and her eyes were dull and 
glassy. ‘ Tell me about it,’ she said, as Ruth sat down by her 
side ; ‘ it is true. Lady Catharine says so : I thought it was a 
dream. Was it sudden t tell me at once — quickly.’ 

‘ Stop, pray be patient, dear Alice ; they will think it is my 
fault again if you are worse.’ 

‘ But was it illness i’ — only tell me.’ 

‘ No, not illness ; pray don’t look so eager,’ said Ruth, in a 
broken voice, whilst her breath came and went rapidly. ‘ She 
was not ill ; — they were in Paris ; — it was an accident.’ She 


5^8 LANETON PARSONAGE. 

paused for a moment, and then added, ‘ She was thrown out of 
a carriage and ’ 

‘ Hurt, was she ? Did she live long ? How terrible ! ’ and 
Alice put her hands before her eyes. 

‘ No, no ; she did not live. Alice, it is so very dreadful ; 
slie was killed, killed on the spot.’ 

Ruth sank back in her chair, and tears came to her relief. 
Alice lay without speech or movement, except that her hands fell 
powerless by her side. Scarcely a fortnight before, and she too 
had stood upon the brink of a sudden destruction. Justine had 
been taken, she had been left. The case might have been re- 
versed, and then — Alice could not face the thought which 
presented itself. She turned to Ruth, and said, hastily, ‘ I 
should be glad to hear more. Is there more to know 1 ’ 

‘ Yes, much ; a great deal ; the worst of all,’ exclaimed 
Ruth, bitterly. ‘ O Alice ! we have done very wrong ; I have 
at least ; and yet I thought I was to make you good, to lead 
you all right.’ 

‘ But about ’ Alice hesitated to pronounce Justine’s 

name. 

^ Yes, about her; I know you must want to hear. I was going 
to bring the letter, but they said I had better not. It was not 
meant for you to know, if they could have kept it from you. 
Florence writes very miserably. Justine, she says, was very 
trying on the journey, full of her own fancies, and they were 
quite dependent on her, because of her knowledge of the lan- 
guage and the country. Mrs De Lacy did not mind at first, 
but after they had been in Paris a few days, there came a letter 
from that Miss Merton we met at St Cuthbert’s. She had seen 
Justine with them in London before they set off, and recognised 
her. She thought Mrs De Lacy must have been deceived by 
her, and wrote to tell her about it. Mrs De Lacy was extremely 
angry, and inquired what Florence knew of the matter ; and 
from what Florence says, she must have made some excuse 
which satisfied her aunt for the time, and at last she consented 
to let Justine remain longer.’ Here Ruth again paused, as if 
to recover strength for the continuation of her story. 

Alice whispered, ‘ Go on. Florence is beyond my compre- 
hension.’ 

‘ And so she is beyond mine,’ exclaimed Ruth ; ‘ for — Alice, 
this is to me the very worst part of all — Miss Merton’s story is 
quite true. I have heard this morning from Mary Vernon, 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


539 


telling me the whole, and more even than you heard. Mary 
says she writes to me because she is afraid when Florence is at 
Sheldon I may be drawn in to have something to do with her 
concerns. It was not merely at Mrs Darnley’s that Justine 
behaved ill; but ever since we left Mrs Carter’s, and I am afraid 
Florence encouraged her at last, because she owns herself to 
me that she was forced to assist her in seeing those friends in 
Paris whom Miss Merton spoke of ; those, I mean, who were 
the cause of her leaving the Darnleys. Florence says she knows 
it was not right, but Justine was so very wilful, nothing could 
stop her when she had set her mind upon anything ; and, if 
Florence refused, she would be moody, and not speak for hours ; 
and then Mrs De Lacy was cross, and everything went amiss ; 
so Florence was obliged to humour her.’ Ruth hurried the last 
words, and broke off with the exclamation — ‘ Alice ! if it had 
not been for me she might never have gone; yet I did not mean 
any harm.’ 

‘ You w^ere not like me,’ said Alice ; ‘ you did not deceive 
because you were afraid.’ 

Ruth shrank from the implied superiority, and answered 
quickly, ‘ Don’t compare, Alice ; I cannot bear it ; there is 
more to be told, but you seem so tired you had better not hear 
any more.-’ 

‘ Go on, don’t wait ; let me hear all before any one comes,’ 
replied Alice, though she looked already exhausted with the 
fatigue and excitement of listening. 

‘ They told me you were extremely ill,’ said Ruth, her thoughts 
now for the first time fully directed to Alice’s state. 

‘ Yes,^ery ill. Go on,’ whispered Alice. 

Ruth regarded her in fear. ^ You are very ill,’ she said, a 
dawning of the truth stealing upon her mind. 

‘ Go on ; give me a little water ; I shall not be able to hear 
much, but go on.’ 

Ruth gave her the water with a trembling hand. It required 
some moments to collect again her scattered thoughts, and her 
voice was nearly choked as she said, ‘ I told you about Mrs De 
Lacy, that she agreed to allow Justine to stay, partly, I am 
afraid, because^ Florence assured her that I knew her and had 
a good opinion of her, and had thought it best to keep her 
secret. Florence was going then to let me know all about it ; 
at least so she says ; but I can’t quite tell what she would have 
done : she is very strange. But I think she sees she was wrong 


540 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


now ; Justine’s last act’ Ruth could hardly finish the sen- 

tence ; it was indeed awful to think of the tremendous change 
which had overtaken the unhappy girl, in the very midst of her 
course of deception and wilfulness. ‘ She went on, as I told 
you, in the same way in Paris as she did in England,’ continued 
Ruth, recovering herself. ‘ The same friends were there whom 
she visited when she was at the Darnleys’. That was the one 
great reason for her wishing to be abroad, it seems. Mrs De 
Lacy and Florence were going to Versailles one day ; she was 
left with Agnes, and she promised not to go out anywhere; she 
told Florence that she would not ; but she did go just the same, 
and met some of these people, and they persuaded her to take 
a drive with them, and it was then the accident happened ; the 
horses ran away, and the carriage was upset. The ft'iends who 
were with her were saved, only very much bruised.’ Ruth burst 
into tears again. 

‘ Miss Clifford,’ said Marsham, coming into the room. ‘ My 
lady has been scolding me for letting you stay ; she thought you 
had done mischief enough before for one day.’ 

Alice did indeed appear much worse, but she made Ruth 
stoop down to listen, and said, in a low voice, ‘ Ruth, I shall 
tell all to Lady Catharine if I can ; then I shall be happy.’ 

‘ Happy ! Ah ! Alice, that can never be for me.’ 

‘Yes, Ruth, dear, you will be when you have told ; and I 
shall say my prayers better. There was always something in 
my way till now. Tell Madeline, if I can’t ; — she wanted me 
to think about being confirmed, I could not whilst there was a 
secret ; — that was the reason, please tell her.’ 


CHAPTER LX. 

I T was drawing towards the close of the evening ; the linger- 
ing hues of sunset were fast fading away, and twilight was 
throwing its cheerless gloom over the dreariness of a sick 
chamber. The curtains of the window were undrawn, and a 
cold light fell upon the bed on which Alice lay ; her lips parched, 
lier complexion thick, sallow, and colourless ; her eyes shut, and 
her breathing at times faint, irregular, and scarcely to be heard, 
and again struggling as with convulsive efforts. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


541 


The Manor was always silent, even amidst the occupation and 
interest of the summer noonday ; now, every sound had ceased. 
Neither the distant rumbling of a cart moving slowly through 
the village, nor the working of the blacksmith’s forge, nor the 
shouts of the children on the green, broke the perfect stillness 
which reigned around. As the deepening shadows stole over 
the face of nature, the shadow of a coming grief stole over the' 
weary heart of Lady Catharine Hyde. She was watching by 
the bed ; Marsham stood near, occasionally laying her hand 
gently upon Alice’s pulse. Lady Catharine asked no questions ; 
she sat without leaning back in her chair, gazing steadily, and 
apparently unmoved, upon Alice’s changed features. Presently 
she said, ^ Marsham, it is possible Mr Clifford may be at home 
to-night — I should wish to know.’ 

Marsham was going to leave the room, but returning, inquired 
whether Lady Catharine would write, or whether she would 
prefer sending a message. 

^ I will write ; bring me my desk,’ and Lady Catharine wrote 
a few words without trembling or agitation. 

The note was sealed and directed ; again Marsham was 
going, but she had read her mistress’s countenance well. 
She stopped and said, ‘ Would your ladyship lie down a little 
before Mr Clifford comes .? ’ 

Lady Catharine shook her head. 

Mf I might order you something, my lady,’ continued Mar- 
sham, ‘ you have had nothing all day.’ 

‘No, no ; let me only see Mr Clifford, if possible.’ 

Marsham looked at Alice once more. ‘ Miss Lennox is 
sleeping, my lady,’ she observed, in a low tone. ‘ Mr Nichols 
said sleep would do her more good than anything.’ 

Lady Catharine smiled so sadly that Marsham’s respect could 
no longer be a restraint upon her sympathy. ‘ O my lady ! ’ 
she exclaimed, ‘ if you would only take a little rest ! It must 
be bad for you any way ; and if Miss Alice should be 
worse ’ 

‘ She will be worse, Marsham.’ 

* Not for certain,’ said Marsham, firmly. 

‘ I have no hope — she will die,’ escaped from Lady Catha- 
rine, in a faint whisper of misery. 

Marsham suffered the words to pass without contradiction. 

Lady Catharine waited for an instant, and then she added, 

‘ Let my note be sent directly ; you need not return yourself ; 


542 LANETON PARSONAGE, 

and remember, I wish to have nothing said that may give 
alarm.’ 

Marsham departed, and Lady Catharine moved to the other 
end of the room to fetch a book. When she came back, Alice’s 
position was altered ; her head was buried in her pillow so as 
completely to hide her face, and the position of her hands was 
different, yet still she seemed to sleep. Lady Catharine noticed 
the change, but satisfied herself that she was not really dis- 
turbed, and sat down again by the bedside. The long minutes 
passed on, and Lady Catharine read, or tried to read, and at 
length hearing Marsham’s tread in the passage, she looked once 
more at Alice, and, going to the door, opened it very softly, 
and, closing it as noiselessly, went out. 

As the almost inaudible sound told that the room was empty, 
a gican of anguish burst from Alice. She threw back the cover- 
lid, and clasped her hands, as if in deep suffering, and raising 
her head with difficulty, gazed for a moment round the room, 
and then, gasping for breath, sank back upon her pillow with 
an expression of utter hopelessness. When Lady Catharine 
returned her face was again hidden. 

Nearly a quarter of an hour afterwards Marsham brought an 
answer from the Parsonage. It had been delayed, as Mrs 
Clifford was not in the house when Lady Catharine’s note 
arrived. Mr Clifford was certainly not expected for two or 
three days. Lady Catharine threw herself back in her chair, 
the image of utter despondency, but, recovering herself instantly, 
said, ‘ Marsham, you were right; I must try to rest.’ She bent 
over Alice and kissed her, and without another observation, 
walked slowly out of the room. 

Silence once more settled upon the household, a silence which 
reigned for several hours. Alice was apparently in a state of 
torpor ; it was not sleep, for her eyes opened from time to time, 
and she asked occasionally for water, but she did not reply to 
any questions, and Marsham could not determine how much or 
how little consciousness she retained. 

And was Alice unconscious ? Is the prisoner unconscious 
who ponders the sentence of his execution ? or the traveller who 
finds himself suddenly upon the brink of a precipice from which 
there is no escape ? 

Die ! Young, careless, unstable ; her imagination filled with 
visions for the future of a long life ; her heart just opening to 
the claims of human affection ; the past remembered but as a 


LANETON PARSONAiGE. 


543 

confused dream, of which no account could be given. Die ! 
Could that faint, dread whisper be true 

What passed in these dreary hours of darkness — the conflict 
between self-upbraiding thoughts and fruitless wishes — it were 
hard indeed to tell. It was a fearful night for Alice ; a night 
never to be forgotten. She who had so long doubted and 
wavered, who had gone one step in the right way, and then 
turned back to take many in the wrong, was now at length sud- 
denly brought to a decision, happy only in that the decision 
was not entirely the result of fear ; that it had in a measure 
been resolved upon before the thought of death made her 
tremble at the prospect of judgment. 

Morning dawned, sufficiently to cast a pale light over the 
chamber, and destroy the little remaining brilliancy of the ex- 
piring lamp. Worn with fever of body and anguish of mind, 
Alice at last fell into an uneasy slumber. She woke again rest- 
less and unrefreshed. Marsham’s chair was empty, the curtains 
were drawn at the side of the bed and across the window, and 
the room was still gloomy in the twilight. A stifled sob fell 
upon her ear — the moan of a bitter grief, and then the words of 
a broken, fervent, almost a despairing prayer — a prayer for her. 
It asked— there was agony in the tone, and the intensity of a 
mother’s love in the expression — for mercy upon one weak and 
erring, yet precious beyond the utterance of words. It asked 
for repentance — for time that might be dedicated to self- 
examination and abasement ; for faith in a Saviour’s atone- 
ment ; for the spirit which should devote to His service the few 
lingering hours of a short life. And it betrayed feelings which 
would never have been spoken to a human ear. In the presence 
of Him who alone knew the secrets of her lonely life. Lady 
Catharine could tell, with the simple confidence of a child, of 
the love which had sprung up in her early days, and was 
strengthened in her advancing youth, and cherished and nur- 
tured amidst the chilling temptations of the world, and at length 
appeared to sleep in a parent’s grave, only to be re-awakened 
with a more anxious interest in the life of her child. 

A mother’s prayer might have been different — it could not 
have been more earnest. It was ended, but Lady Catharine still 
knelt. There was but one position now for her — one attitude 
to speak when words had failed — one posture to give a silent 
voice to the all-absorbing thought — that of Alice’s safety, not 
in life, but in death. She stood at length once more bending 


544 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


over Alice ; and Alice raised her eyes blinded with tears. Lady 
Catharine spoke to her tenderly. Alice held her hand and 
tried to answer ; it was but a whisper. Lady Catharine 
stooped to listen, and then came a burst of agonised feeling, 
and the awful question — 

‘ Must I die 

Lady Catharine started with horror at the echo of her own 
thoughts. ‘ Die ! Alice, my child, my treasure ! who says it 

‘ You think I must ; you love me, and you cannot deceive 
me.’ 

Lady Catharine answered quietly, ‘ Life and death are in the 
hands of God.’ 

‘ But will He take me i’ — is it certain ? — do you know it must 
be?’ repeated Alice ; and still she held Lady Catharine’s hand, 
and fixed her large, eager eyes upon her face, seeking to read 
her sentence there. 

Lady Catharine sat down by the bed-side, for her limbs 
trembled ; but still she spoke soothingly. ‘ Alice, my love, you 
are very ill. We cannot tell what it may please God to ordain ; 
we can but resign ourselves to His will.’ 

Alice turned away her head ; she was answered. 

‘ Shall I pray for you, Alice?’ asked Lady Catharine. 

Alice looked at her once more with a quieter, more settled 
expression. ‘ Kiss me,’ she said, ‘ kiss me — again, again — . 
forgive me — pray Him to forgive me. I have done such bad 
things ; I would do better, if I might live — I would try. Don’t 
go,’ she added, as Lady Catharine gently withdrew her hand to 
wipe away her tears ; ‘ I would please you and love you ; I 
would be like dear mamma, if I might only live.’ 

‘ My own Alice, there is but one way of pleasing me now — 
trusting all to God.’ 

‘ But I have done very wrong,’ said Alice, her voice growing 
eager, and her eyes flashing with excitement, as a crowd of con- 
fused recollections presented themselves to her mind. ‘ There 
is so much to tell, I can’t remember it. If Ruth were here, she 
would help. Send for Ruth — please send for her.’ 

• Ruth has told me some things, my love ; she is gone home.’ 

‘ But about Florence — that was it — Florence and Justine. 
Justine is dead, they said — is she dead ? My head aches so 
very much ?’ Alice sank half-exhausted upon her pillow. 

‘ You must sleep again, my love,’ began Lady Catharine, but 
Alice roused herself instantly. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


545 


^ Sleep ! — never. I must tell.^ 

^ No, indeed, my child, you must not tell. Whatever the 
wrong may be, it is forgiven.’ 

‘ F orgiven I before you have heard ? ’ 

‘ All — everything. But I have heard much already. O 
Alice ! my precious child ! may you but find the same forgive- 
ness with God and Lady Catharine sank upon her knees in an 
agony of grief. 

‘ I should like you to pray for me,’ whispered Alice. 

Lady Catharine recovered her self-command almost instan- 
taneously. Her voice never faltered as she read the prayer for 
pardon in the Visitation of the Sick, and when she rose up the 
expression of her face was not only peaceful but thankful. Alice, 
too, seemed comforted. She pointed to a chair for Lady Catha- 
rine to sit down, and said — 

‘ You are quite sure that you forgive ?’ 

• Yes, indeed, my love. Do not think of me ; think only of 
yourself.’ 

‘ But I have been wrong,’ continued Alice, ^ such a long time 
— always.’ 

‘ And 1 have loved you so long,’ said Lady Catharine. 

‘ Yes,, because of dear mamma, not for myself ; but I would 
do everything, and I would love you dearly ;’ and she tried to 
raise herself in her bed and throw her arms round Lady Catlia- 
rine’s neck. 

‘ For your mother’s sake I loved you first, my own Alice,’ 
said Lady Catharine ; ‘ but since for yourself.’ 

‘ No, not for me, not for me,’ pursued Alice ; ‘but I would 
do better. Would it be wrong to pray 1 ’ she added, in an 
eager, tremulous voice. 

‘ Pray for what ? ’ 

‘ That I might get well only for one week — that I might do 
every little tiny thing to please you ; and then I would come back 
and die.’ 

Lady Catharine could not answer. 

‘ I must die, I know,’ continued Alice. ‘ If I were forgiven, 
I should like it — not to do wrong any more.’ 

‘ My love, we must not doubt of forgiveness when we are 
really sorry.’ 

‘ Yes, I know ; but I have been so often sorry, and I have 
gone wrong again. Yet now I think I am in earnest ; I think 
He knows it.’ 


2 M 


546 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


‘ Doubtless God knows it and accepts it/ said Lady Catharine. 

‘ Alice, we shall yet part in peace/ 

‘ When I die,’ said Alice ; and she slightly shuddered. ‘ Will 
it be very soon ?’ she added, in a tone of deep awe. 

‘ Very soon, it may be ; and we must think it cannot be too 
soon if it is God’s will.’ 

‘ And if I am forgiven,’ said Alice ; ‘ if I am quite sure of 
that ; would Mr Clifford say he was sure ?’ 

‘ We must trust to the word of God, my love. “ If we con- 
fess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.” 

That is what St John says ; and again, St Paul tells us that 
“ This is a faithful saying and worthy of all -acceptation, that 
Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” ’ 

‘ I wish Mr Clifford was here ; I wish he could say it to me,’ 
continued Alice. ‘ He thought me so wicked; would he believe 
now that I am sorry ? ’ 

‘ Yes, indeed ; how could be doubt it ?’ 

‘ But will you tell him ? Perhaps I shall be ’ she 

stopped ; ‘ if it is very soon, you know he might not be here ; 

but I should like him to be told. I loved him very much when 
he talked that night. And Mrs Clifford, and Madeline, and 
Ruth, will they come and see me ? I should like to say good- 
bye, if I must — are you sure ? — must I really die ?’ 

Alice’s terror seemed returning, and Lady Catharine, control- 
ling her own anguish, kissed her again and again, and, raising 
her gently, gave her water to moisten- her parched lips. Dis- 
tressing memories seemed crowding upon Alice’s mind. 

‘ There is so much,’ she murmured, ‘ it comes altogether ; so 
long ago it happened. At the White House I deceived mamma ; 
one day I told a story ; Benson let me do wrong things ; I can’t 
recollect — won’t you help me ? ’ and her glassy eyes were raised 
entreatingly and helplessly to Lady Catharine. 

‘ You are too weak to remember all, my dear child ; but your 
Saviour is most merciful ; He will never turn away. He loves 
you veiy dearly.’ 

‘ I have been wicked — worse than any one,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yet all the time think how He loved you. When you were 
left an orphan, how He took care of you ; and how He has 
blessed you ever since, though you were wilful and careless ; 
and now, O Alice ! there is no blessing like repentance, for it 
will bring you to rest in Paradise.’ 

‘ Rest,’ repeated Alice, very faintly. Lady Catharine, as she 
bent down, caught the words, ‘ My mother.’ 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


547 


‘ Yes, Alice, my precious child, rest with her; with the spirits 
of the pure like her ; rest in the company of angels ; rest, above 
all, with God/ 

And as the last words were uttered, Alice’s head sank upon 
the pillow and her eyes closed ; whether in sleep or the torpor 
of approaching death. Lady Catharine could not tell. 


CHAPTER LXI. 



HEN Ruth left Alice, she went back to the Parsonage, 


V V to shut herself up in her own room. Alice’s parting 
words were the one overflowing drop in her cup of bitterness : 
— ‘ She wanted me to think about being confirmed, and I could 
not — that was the reason.’ 

And this was the end of all her efforts to obtain influence ! 
Florence encouraged in a course of deception; Agnes De Lacy 
confided to the teaching of one who could only lead her astray ; 
Justine’s evil schemes furthered till they were terminated 
suddenly and awfully ; and Alice, her companion, her friend, 
who from childhood had looked up to her and loved her, kept 
back from the solemn ordinances of the Church, and about, it 
might be, to enter upon the last struggle of life and death 
with a burdened conscience, and unsupported by the chief 
blessing which God has provided for His people. Ruth might 
well tremble when she thought of these things. Her own share 
in them was indeed exaggerated considerably by the agitation 
of the moment. Florence would have been frivolous and 
obstinate, Justine deceitful, and Alice unstable, whether Ruth 
had concerned herself with them or not ; but the part which 
she had taken, though unconsciously, in fostering the original 
evil in their characters, could not be hidden. 

Ruth was not wilfully insincere. One wrong principle had 
blinded her ; but she was still bent upon serving God truly. 
The startling consequences of her errors forced her to a closer 
self-examination, and something of the truth began to. dawn 
upon her. The deceit practised towards her mother had 
frightened her at first ; but she had stifled self-reproach, and 
passed it over, if not forgotten it. Now it came again. One 
glaring offence will often, as if by a special permission of Pro- 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


548 

vidence, open our eyes to many secret ones. Ruth now re- 
viewed her conduct step by step. At one moment she was 
inclined to excuse herself, and especially to compare herself 
with Madeline, and ask whether her sister, under similar temp- 
tations, would not have acted in the same way. But a sincere 
purpose must, by God’s blessing, enlighten by degrees both the 
conscience and the judgment ; and Ruth soon acknowledged 
that Madeline had in fact been placed under precisely the same 
circumstances as herself at the beginning, but that an act of 
strict adherence to duty — an act which many might have termed 
scrupulousness — had kept her from every succeeding difficulty. 
If Madeline had entered Mrs De Lacy’s house instead of care- 
fully consulting what she believed to be her mother’s wishes, 
she might have been involved in the same snare as Ruth. We 
excuse our faults because of the strength of our temptation, and 
forget that we have brought the temptation upon ourselves. The 
Bible tells us that God never tempts us above that we are able 
to bear. 

All this and much more Ruth saw, and bitter indeed was her 
sorrow. Conversation with her mother was her only comfort. 
Mrs Clifford did not so much try to subdue her anguish by 
reasoning, as to soften it by sympathy. She encouraged her 
to repeat again all the minute events of the last few weeks, not 
by way of confession but relief. She could understand, she 
said, how easily Ruth might have been led on, without any de- 
liberate intention of doing wrong — acting upon expediency 
instead of principle ; for it was the frequent mistake of many 
older and wiser persons ; and as Ruth listened to her mother, 
and her heavy heart grew lighter, she was not less penitent for 
her faults, or less sorrowful about Alice, but she was freed from 
the lonely feeling which oppresses us when first we are conscious 
of having fallen into serious errors ; and her perception of 
right and wrong became clearer and deeper. When ve 
exaggerate our faults we are not always truly humble. At the 
root of the most intense outward expression of sorrow there is 
often a belief that we are not quite as bad as we say, and an 
idea, unacknowledged, that our grief is in some measure an expia- 
tion for our offence. Truth is as valuable in repentance as in all 
other cases : for, though our feelings may be less keen, they will 
certainly be more lasting when they are just as well as sincere. 

Mr Clifford returned home the day but one after Alice 
became so much worse. The accounts from the Manor were 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


549 


then rather more favourable. The dangerous symptoms had 
not increased, much to the surprise of Alice’s medical attendant ; 
though as yet little real hope could be given. Alice required 
sleep, but it was bestowed only at short intervals, and quietness 
being deemed indispensable, no one was allowed to see her 
except Lady Catharine. 

Ruth became extremely anxious, almost more so now that 
there was hope, than when there had appeared to be none. She 
would willingly have been backwards and forwards between the 
Parsonage and the Manor all day, and Mr Clifford found it 
scarcely possible to calm her uneasiness. Her exaggerated 
views of her own conduct revived, and because Alice had met 
with an accident at the picnic, to which she had persuaded 
her to go, she almost began to fancy that she was the cause of 
her present illness. 

Mr Clifford tried to engage her attention by talking with her 
upon all that had occurred. Ruth could speak and think of 
nothing else. Sometimes it seemed quite plain to her when 
and how she had failed in her duty ; at other times she was 
confirmed in the belief that she had never intended to do wrong, 
and, on the contraiy, had generally set herself to do good. 
How could evil- consequences follow upon good intentions ? 

Ruth’s ideas were made clearer upon this point when she sat 
with her father and mother the same evening in the arbour, at 
the extremity of the green walk, where in long past years — the 
years of her happy innocent childhood, she had gained some of 
her first notions of religious truth. She had by that time told 
all ; and not only all that she had done, but all that she had 
wished to do ; all her motives and feelings, so far as she could 
discover them. ‘ I cannot find out,’ she said, ‘ how I managed 
to be so mistaken. I can see that I was, but I fancied myself 
right at the time. I hope I did not do it all wilfully.’ 

‘ We are apt to deceive ourselves a little upon such subjects, 
my dear Ruth,’ replied Mr Clifford. ‘ Wilful sins are not 
merely those which we deliberately plan, but they are also 
those which we encourage day by day in the temper of our 
minds. A man is secretly ambitious ; to gratify his ambition 
he commits an injustice, without perceiving that it is an injus- 
tice. Then he opens his eyes and says, ‘‘ I am not guilty, be- 
cause I did^ not mean to be unjust.” Granted ; he is not guilty 
of wilful injustice; but he is guilty of wilful ambition. It is the 
same with selfishness, vanity — all sins, in fact. Any one false 


5 5 o LANE TON PARS ON A GE. 

principle allowed to take root, and then acted upon, is a wilful 
offence/ 

The tears rose to Ruth’s eyes. 

‘ Poor child!’ said Mrs Clifford, ‘ she is very unhappy; we 
must not be hard upon her.’ 

‘ Ruth knows I would not for the world be hard upon her, or 
upon any one,’ replied Mr Clifford. ‘ It is because there is too 
much in one’s own heart of the same self-deception that one is 
apt to speak strongly against it. I have seen it fatally marring 
what might otherwise have been most superior characters ; a 
secret, gentle selfishness, or vanity, or love of self-indulgence ; 
or, as it is in Ruth’s case — Ruth, my child, you will not be 
vexed with your father and mother for reminding you of a dis- 
position which they saw before you really began to discriminate 
right from wrong — a desire to be first, to rule and govern other 
minds ; I have seen these little faults — or, as they are often 
called, foibles, eating away the seeds of even exalted virtues, and 
involving others in suffering for years, and yet the individuals 
themselves, firm in. good intentions, and professing to act from 
high, even religious motives.’ 

‘O papal’ exclaimed Ruth, and she looked at him with 
surprise amounting to alarm. 

‘ It is a very stern doctrine,’ said Mr Clifford, ‘but I am 
afraid it may be a true one ; and if we consider a little more 
closely, we shall see that the principle is fully carried out in the 
Bible. Saul was secretly irreverent and wilful. He was told 
utterly to destroy Amalek ; the people took of the spoils, the 
sheep and oxen, not for their own pleasure, but for the service 
of God. Saul permitted it ; he did not see that the act was 
disobedience. The answer of Samuel to his excuse is a warn- 
ing to us all, when we are inclined to deviate from the strict 
line of right with what seems to ourselves a good intention ; 
“ Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than 
the fat of rams.” ’ 

‘ But, papa,’ said Ruth, ‘ if we do not see that we are wrong, 
how can we be responsible 1 ’ 

‘ Because, my dear child, we ought to see it. We have a per- 
fect example and a perfect law given us in the Bible, and we 
may follow it if we will. It is no excuse for a drunkard, who 
never reads his Bible, to say that he does not know that drunk- 
enness is a crime.’ 

‘ But such a sin as that is what every one perceives to be 
wicked at once,’ observed Ruth. 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


551 


* True ; and it requires careful self-examination to detect sins 
of the heart — pride, vanity, selfishness, self-indulgence. Still, 
where is our excuse.? Are we not told to examine ourselves .? — 
to watch and pray lest we enter into temptation.?’ 

‘ But — I do not mean to be perverse ; mamma, you know 
that I do not,’ began Ruth, turning to her mother. 

‘ Your papa will not think so, dear child ; only let us know 
what your difficulty is.’ 

‘ I have been wrong,’ continued Ruth, colouring deeply ; ‘ 1 
have deceived — almost I have said what was not true. Papa^ 
I would own it again and again ; but it was not vanity which 
made me do it, nor selfishness ; and I do not think exactly 
that it was pride. I used to examine myself ; 1 really tried to 
prepare for confirmation ; I should have been miserable to 
have neglected my prayers ; or not to have read the Bible, and 
I was always wishing to get out of my perplexities if I could 
have seen the right way.’ 

‘ That is, if you could have made up your mind to give up 
your desire of influence,’ said Mr Clifford. 

‘ Yes, it might be ; perhaps it was so,’ said Ruth, consider- 
ing ; ‘but it was influence for good which I wished for.’ 

‘ But influence is not in itself a legitimate object of desire, 
Ruth ; there lies the error. Many weeks ago I warned you 
that it was not.’ 

Ruth looked as if she could not agree, but did not like to 
differ. 

‘ The love of influence is ambition,’ continued Mr Clifford ; 
‘ it is the love of power, and power we are expressly told “ be- 
longeth unto God.”’ 

‘ But to do good, to make others good,’ said Ruth ; ‘ surely 
we are bound to attempt it.’ 

‘ To do right, certainly ; to make others good, certainly not ; 
and for one very evident reason — that it is a task entirely be- 
yond us.’ 

Ruth repeated to herself, ‘Not to make others good,’ whilst 
pondering what the words could possibly mean. 

‘ To try to act ourselves upon the minds of our fellow- 
creatures,’ continued Mr Clifford, ‘instead of simply doing 
what we are told, and trusting the effect to God, is as if Moses, 
when commanded to strike the rock in the desert, had begun to 
dig wells, and cut channels, hoping to bring water for the people 
by human skill. It is undertaking to do ourselves what God alone 
can do. The power to change the heart is His and His only.’ 


552 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


* Yes/ replied Ruth, ‘ of course; but God does give us power 
over each other.’ 

‘ Undoubtedly ; that is, He vouchsafes to make use of us as 
instruments. But let us turn again to the Bible. Do you 
remember what the apostle says ? “ God hath chosen the foolish 
things of the world to confound the wise ; and God hath 
chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things 
, which are mighty; that no flesh should glory in His presence.” 
The mighty things of the world are talents, eloquence, a 
determined will, powers of persuasion, rank, riches, beauty, 
grace of manner ; and the weak things of the world are meek- 
ness, charity, patience, long-suffering, self-denial. These we 
may desire as we will ; we cannot strive for them too energeti- 
cally ; the others are glittering temptations, and in themselves 
powerless for good.’ 

‘ Ruth cannot quite go with you,’ said Mrs Clifford ; ‘ she 
does not see why the two are not compatible ; why, for instance, 
a person may not be very clever, or very rich, and at the same 
time extremely good, and therefore blest with more extended 
means of influence ; and why, therefore, it is not allowable to 
wish for talents or riches.’ 

‘Because talents and riches are great snares,’ replied Mr 
Clifford ; ‘ and the very fact of desiring them shows that there 
is danger in our having them. Do you not see that if we 
could believe, what is really the case, that all power and all 
influence belong to God ; and if we really desired the good of 
our fellow-creatures, and not the gratification of our own pride, 
we should be quite contented whether we had influence appar- 
ently (for all persons may have it really) or not.^ It is God who 
is working, not we. If He does not choose us as His instru- 
ments, it will make no difference ; the good will be effected by 
some one, and as long as it is effected we must be satisfied.’ 

‘ Still,’ said Ruth, ‘ it would be delightful to feel that one had 
been the means of doing great good. It has been one of my 
dreams from a child.’ 

‘ Then, my dearest Ruth, you may be assured that it is your 
peculiar temptation.’ 

‘ But no great deeds would be effected if people had not such 
dreams and longings,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ I grant it perfectly, and I do not say that they may not be 
turned to very great advantage ; they may rouse energy and 
encourage perseverance ; but I do say, and I would repeat it 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


553 


most strongly, that they must always be a serious temptation, 
lor remember, every good principle, carried to excess, be- 
comes evil, and the higher the principle the more fatal when 
perverted.’ 

‘ But would such dreams be more dangerous than others ’ 
asked Ruth. 

‘ Yes, because the evil is infinitely more subtle. Remember, 
Ruth, we have seen that power, — all power, — most especially 
influence over the mind, is the work of the Spirit of God. A 
clever man talks, or writes, or preaches, and persons come to 
him, and say. How happy you must be ! What infinite good 
you are effecting! No one thinks it right to remind him that 
the good is not his own. By degrees he begins to believe what 
he is so constantly told — he works even more diligently, but, 
unconsciously to himself, from a different motive. Still the 
same words are sounded in his ears. At length he dies ; people 
lament him, and recount all the good he has done ; he has left 
a name for posterity to honour. But he is dead ; “ after death 
comes the judgment.” When that man is called to give an 
account of himself before God, do you think he will be accepted 
because he was eloquent, energetic, liberal in giving money and 
apt to advise, or even the instrument of turning many from sin 
to holiness ? ’ 

‘ One would almost imagine so,’ said Ruth ; ‘ that is, one 
cannot help fancying that such things must make a difference.’ 

‘Think of St Paul,’ said Mr Clifford, ‘where he says, “Lest 
having preached to others, I myself should be a cast-away.” It 
must be a fearful thing for such a man as I have been describ- 
ing, for any person, indeed, who has trusted to the good which 
he appears to have effected, to discover, when repentance can 
be of no avail, that he has been all the time acting the part of 
Herod, who listened to the voice of the people proclaiming him 
a god, and perished miserably, because he gave not the True 
God the glory.’ 

‘ But the danger is not certain,’ said Ruth. 

‘ No, there is one hope of escape, and but one. WTien the 
traveller in the desert knows that the scorching Simoom is ap- 
proaching, he throws himself upon the ground, and buries his 
face in the dust, and it passes, and leaves him uninjured ; and 
when the scorching Simoom of human admiration is about to 
assail us, our safety must be the same — to lie prostrate before 
God, closing our eyes, and stopping our ears, and uttering a 


554 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


confession of nnworthiness to Him, for every word of praise 
from man. Is this the temper of mind which suits with the 
desire of influence 

Finding that Ruth was silent, Mr Clifford continued — 

‘ I will tell you, my dear Ruth,’ he said, ‘ what our actual 
position when we appear to be doing good is like. Last year 
we saw the enormous steam printing-press, by which Bibles can 
be printed at the rate of one in a minute. Do you remember 
noticing the boy who placed the blank sheet of paper in readi- 
ness for the engine to work upon.?’ 

‘ Yes,’ replied Ruth, ‘ perfectly.’ 

‘ Now if that boy had failed in his business, the work would 
have been stopped. But was it he who printed the Bible.?’ 

Ruth smiled. 

‘ The mighty power, if one may use a simile upon such a 
subject without irreverence,’ continued Mr Clifford, ‘ was totally 
independent of him. The sheet of paper went in blank ; it 
came out a message of mercy to millions. Suppose that, instead 
of simply attending to his duty, the boy had endeavoured him- 
self to print the page?’ 

‘ He would have been crushed,’ replied Ruth. 

‘ And so shall we be crushed, my dear Ruth — crushed in our 
happiness upon earth, and crushed in our hopes of heaven, if 
we turn aside from the only true means of influence, fervent in- 
tercession, and a strict obedience to humble daily duties, and 
seek to make others good, instead of carefully striving to be 
good ourselves.’ 

Ruth put her hand within her father’s, and said, whilst her 
lip quivered, and her eyes glistened — 

‘ Papa, I think you are right ; if I had thought so before, 
Alice’ She stopped. 

‘ My love, you will remember one way of doing good — the 
chief way, if we would but believe it, is open to us always. 
Alice is in the hands of a most merciful God ; we may pray 
for her.’ 

Madeline seems to have been long forgotten. There are 
many like her in this world — passing unnoticed by man, yet 
very precious in the sight of God. 

At the end of the little passage into which the few bed-cham- 
bers of the Parsonage opened, there was a very small room — 
dark, without a fire-place, and long used as a lumber closet. 
It had no attraction of any kind. The lattice-vfindow faced a 


LANE TON PARSONA GE. 


555 


wall, and only when looking in one direction, could a distant 
peep of the hills be discovered, which closed round the village 
of Laneton. Madeline had chosen this closet for her own ; it 
had a charm for her. Perhaps it was the charm of indepen - 
dence and solitude ; perhaps there was something in by-gone 
associations — the remembrance of that first prayer, the germ of 
unfading happiness, which had been offered in the midst of the 
turmoil and distraction of school, in the little dressing-room at 
Mrs Carter’s house. The closet was known by the name of 
Madeline’s hiding-place ; and many were the laughs raised at 
her expense, for the ingenuity with which she had managed to 
pile up boxes, and chests, and stow away all the useless trea- 
sures of many years, and still leave room for a habitation, or, 
as Ruth called it, a settlement for herself. A little round table, 
and an old chair ; a shelf to hold about half-a-dozen books ; 
and the ledge of the window for any et ceteras, — these were all 
Madeline’s accommodations for comfort. And they were all 
she needed. The half-hours spent in her hiding-place were 
seasons when earthly luxuries were forgotten — they were half- 
hours of that peace which the world can neither give nor take 
away. 

Madeline was in her closet now ; the lattice-window war 
open, and she was seated by it. Her face bore the traces of 
tears, for she was looking upon the sky and thinking of Alice. 
Before many days — possibly before many hours had gone by, 
the secrets of that invisible world, upon the outskirts of which 
she was gazing, might be revealed to her. What were those 
secrets What would that state be upon which the friend with 
whom she had lived, played, talked, eaten and drank, and 
shared both sorrow and joy, would then enter .? Where lay 
the home of the departed 1 What were their hopes and fears 1 
What formed their happiness or their misery 1 And how could 
Alice bear the change To go alone ! unaided by human 
love ; to begin a new existence, and that existence fixed — most 
blessed or most wretched for ever. Madeline trembled and 
grew pale. Another thought, a more terrible one, followed — a 
remembrance of Justine. Madeline’s last recollection of her 
was the sound of her voice in the hall of Mrs Carter’s house on 
the morning of the discovery of her fault. It was the last that 
she had seen or heard of her. How little she imagined then 
that it would be the last ! How little she realised the possi- 
bility that they might never meet again until the fate of each 


556 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


should be decided for eternity ! It seemed as if she her- 
self had been brought nearer to death — nearer to judgment. 
The vast sky grew awful in its immensity ; the radiance of the 
declining sun, sinking slowly behind the hill, became over- 
powering as the symbol of that eternal light, from which no 
secrets of the heart can be hid. Justine! where was she 
Madeline could bear the thought no longer, and she sank upon 
her knees in prayer. 

There is peace to be found in repentance after grievous sin ; 
in the turning of the heart to God amidst the harassing cares 
of middle life ; in the self-dedication of the eleventh hour ; but 
there is no peace promised, and none bestowed, so perfect, so 
holy, so deep and unspeakable, as the peace vouchsafed to such 
as ‘ remember their Creator in the days of their youth.’ It 
was the blessing now granted to Madeline in her hour of dark- 
ness and trial. 

Justine was gone beyond the reach of example, or warning, 
or prayer. That was a thought without comfort, save in the 
sympathy of Him who wept over Jerusalem, because it knew 
not the ‘ time of its visitation.’ Alice was in danger, but 
Madeline could give vent to her anxious affection in earnest 
supplication ; and trust that if the petition for life should not 
be granted, it would be denied only to be bestowed more fully 
in heaven. 

Ruth had erred and Madeline was disappointed ; but the 
love which was the real source of every joy, and the perfection 
which satisfied all her wishes, could never fail — could never 
change ; the very thought of it was rest. 

Yet more — the prospect of death was awful, and the idea of 
venturing on an unknown existence appalling. But more than 
fifteen years before, there had entered upon this lower world a 
little infant — feeble, helpless — the inheritor of sin and the child 
of wrath ; it had no claim upon mercy, it had no right to look 
for happiness ; it was born in the midst of suffering, exposed 
to ten thousand accidents of the body, liable to ten thousand 
evils of the soul ; destruction and misery w^ere its birthright. 
That little child was w^elcomed as a precious gift from heaven ; 
friends were waiting for it, angels were watching over it. It 
was tended Avith an unceasing love, guarded in its little cradle 
night and day, every want supplied, every pain soothed, every 
privation for its sake borne cheerfully and thankfully. 

Since that hour a mighty change had passed over it ; from 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


557 


the child of wrath it had been made the child of God ; from 
the heir of shame, the inheritor of heaven. And from the time 
of that change it had grown in grace as it grew in years. It 
had become more gentle, more humble, more trusting, loving, 
and earnest ; weak, indeed, still, — bearing the taint of its first 
nature — but conscious even to itself of desires which could 
never by nature be its own, and a love which could find a 
resting-place only in the bosom of its Saviour. 

When the immortal spirit of that child, freed from the body 
of sin, should enter upon the shadowy world lying between 
earth and heaven, could it have cause to fear ? Would the 
love which had been so provident for its support when it was 
the heir of evil, be less careful for its happiness when it was 
the destined inhabitant of glory ? 

Madeline could no longer doubt. While she thought of the 
mercy which had already been vouchsafed to her, and told her 
fears and griefs in the ear of Him who loved her so truly, the 
heaviness of her heart changed into calm rest, and her fore- 
bodings for the future into cheerful hope. 

‘ Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed 
on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee.’ 


CHAPTER EXIT 

I T is at times appointed in the providence of God that we 
should be brought face to face with some severe trial, forced 
to contemplate its every feature, taught to bend ourselves in 
submission to endure it ; and at length when, after a long 
struggle, we are enabled to pray from our hearts that ‘ God’s 
will may be done,’ suddenly and unexpectedly comes relief. 

Perhaps among the many seasons of refreshment granted us 
in the course of our earthly pilgrimage, there are none more 
perfect in enjoyment than these ; foretastes, as they assuredly 
are, of the unspeakable rest which awaits us when ‘ our warfare 
shall be accomplished, and our iniquity pardoned,’ and in the 
Paradise of the blest we shall be preparing to receive at the 
Lord’s hand ‘ double for all our sins.’ 

Peace of conscience is then added to the escape from suffer- 
ing ; and such was the happiness enjoyed by Lady Catharine 


558 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


Hyde, when, after two more days of alternate hope and fear, 
Alice was pronounced to be out of danger. The relief which 
she felt showed her for the first time all she had endured whilst 
believing herself not only resigned, but unutterably thankful for 
the softened tone of Aliceas mind, 

Alice was nursed now with even more devoted tenderness 
than before, and a tenderness which brought a full reward both 
to herself and Lady Catharine. The sense of having her love 
appreciated was all that Lady Catharine required, to bring out 
the feelings which sorrow and natural reserve had long chilled. 
And Alice began to understand what had before often perplexed 
her — her mother’s extreme affection for Lady Catharine. The 
difference between the kindness shown her after her accident, 
and that which she experienced now, was most striking. Before, 
everything had been provided for her with a restrained, melan- 
choly care, with what appeared to be the sadness of ‘ thoughts 
which do often lie too deep for tears.’ It was an unapproach- 
able affection ; so sensitive that it shrank from the least touch, 
and was disturbed by every passing shadow. Whether Alice 
smiled or sighed, whether she read or worked, whether she spoke 
abruptly or leisurely, were differences then always marked, and 
very frequently commented upon ; and when commented upon, 
of course, increasing restraint, and so augmenting the evil. The 
love that seeks and is doubtful of return, is a jealous, anxious, 
wearying spirit, preying upon itself. The love that knows itself 
beloved, is open, cheerful, and confiding, and hardy enough to 
bend to the storms and rebuffs of daily life, and spring up in 
vigour when they have passed. Alice was not sufficiently 
accustomed to examine the workings of her mind, to compre- 
hend from whence the change arose, though she felt it hourly. 

Yet the belief in mutual affection would not alone have sufficed 
to work the change for her happiness. It is very good for us 
all occasionally to have our habits broken in upon, and to be 
obliged to look upon life under a new aspect. It prevents our 
ideas from corroding, we become more alive to the feelings of 
others, and see ourselves and them in a more true light. Sudden 
events are much more useful in effecting this change than any 
reasoning. 

The illness, which had completely interrupted Lady Catha- 
rine’s ordinary train of thought, proved more efficacious than 
even Mr Clifford’s words, in teaching her how Alice was 
to be treated. When she could no longer direct her every 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


559 


action, and find fault with her for breaking rules, she lost in a 
degree the desire of doing so. Alice was often left to herself, 
in order to be quiet ; then she began to find her own ways of 
amusement, and Lady Catharine was too glad to see her con- 
tented, to inquire particularly what she had been doing. Alice 
liked the feeling of independence more a great deal than she 
cared for the practice ; and when she discovered that she might 
choose her own work, and read or write as it suited her, and 
employ her day very much as she fancied, she was pleased 
rather than not to exercise a little self-discipline, by conform- 
ing to what she knew was Lady Catharine’s wish. It is not 
agreeable, whatever we may sometimes think, to be able to do 
always exactly as we like ; and when persons are set free from 
restraint, they either form a new rule for themselves, or. become 
restless and unhappy. True liberty is to be found in the 
spirit which wills what it must and ought to do ; even as the 
most complete happiness is that service of God which is ‘ perfect 
freedom.’ 

But above and beyond all, the change which was now begin- 
ning to brighten Alice’s life was to be found in her own heart. 
This was the real good, the blessing which would have supported 
her, even if outward circumstances had continued as untoward 
as before. Not that her natural disposition was altered, and 
that she had suddenly overcome the desire to follow her own way ; 
or that she was not often impatient and fretful ; still oftener 
weary when reading the Bible, and distracted when praying. 
Alice was Alice still. But the struggle was begun ; it was no 
longer the inconstant effort of a heart clinging to this world, 
whilst feebly desiring heaven, but the steady determination that, 
cost what it might — be the labour of conquering her natural 
faults ever so arduous — she would devote herself to it in faith, 
and be, through God’s assistance. His child, in devoted 
obedience, as she was by the privileges of her baptism. Alice 
had gazed upon death, and she could not forget it. She had 
looked into Eternity, believing herself about to enter it, and she 
knew that the same Eternity still lay before her. She was 
blessed in her resolutions, and yet, more blessed are they who 
require no such shock to startle them into consistency. 

The steady, simple piety of Madeline Clifford was surely more 
valuable in the sight even of men, than the sincere, but 
irregular, unequal efforts of Alice. Alice herself felt Madeline’s 
superiority ; and Ruth now acknowledged it also — few could 


560 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


have guessed how heartily. Ruth was a person to give but few 
external signs of feeling ; or, at least, of those feelings which 
are peculiarly our own, those which lie open but to the eye of 
God. All with her now was quiet, orderly, and silent : there 
perhaps lay the great alteration. Ruth said much less than she 
had been wont to do ; she was not, as before, the first to offer 
an opinion, or to suggest plans. What was proposed she fol- 
lowed out diligently, whether it was a walk, or an extra attend- 
ance at the school, or any little scheme for the day ; but she 
had no schemes of her own. Madeline often found her partly 
dressed and reading, when she awoke early in the morning ; 
and instead of working in the garden in the evening, Ruth was 
generally known to be sitting by herself, through the moonlight, 
and even in darkness, till summoned to tea. When Alice and 
Ruth were together there was not much conversation between 
them. Ruth generally preferred reading aloud. It was from 
Madeline that Alice learned the news which interested her, for it 
was from her that she heard of Mrs De Lacy, and Florence, 
and Agnes ; that Florence had returned home according to a 
wish of her own, finding no pleasure in travelling after the 
shock she had received ; and that Mrs De Lacy had given up 
all idea of engaging a foreign governess, and had joined some 
friends who were going to Switzerland for a short time. These 
subjects were extremely painful to Ruth, most especially, as be- 
sides reminding her of her own faults, they had brought pain and 
annoyance to her mother. Letters had passed between Mrs 
Clifford and Mrs De Lacy, explanatory of Ruth’s share in the 
deception practised ; and Ruth had read these letters, and 
watched the expression of her mother’s face when she had to 
answer them, and she knew that it was shame for her which 
made her mamma so uneasy at the sight of the foreign post- 
mark and paper. All this was very humbling ; and in those 
hours of solitude Ruth thought deeply upon the conduct which 
had caused it ; her mistakes of principle, her false judgment, 
her hidden pride. Solemn duties lay before her ; solemn vows 
were to be renewed ; a most holy privilege was soon to be 
vouchsafed to her. And now, at last, the veil was drawn aside, 
and she saw herself in her true light ; unequal to the duties, not 
fully realising the vows, and unworthy — oh ! how miserably 
unworthy — of the privilege. It was not strange that Ruth 
should be silent, and move with a quieter step, and sit engrossed 
in her own thoughts. Stillness and self-recollection were but 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


561 

the necessary accompaniments of that strict preparation which 
was required of one who had deceived herself and deceived' 
others. 

And stillness and self-recollection. are essential for us all, but 
in different degrees. Madeline’s laugh was heard at the 
Parsonage, thrilling as merrily as ever on the ear ; Madeline’s 
blue eyes glanced as brightly as before ; her step was still 
bounding and free with health and happiness, and her sweet 
voice sounded as the clear whisper of a ministering spirit to the 
weary heart of Alice, when, sometimes dispirited at a failure in 
a fresh endeavour to be good, or worn with the weakness of 
sickness, she lay exhausted on the sofa, too tired for reading 
and but little disposed for conversation. It was the voice of 
one who spoke of religion from the knowledge of its blessed- 
ness, and not the consciousness of its terrors. 

‘ It will be so very, very nice, Alice, dear, by and by,’ she 
said one day, as she was sitting by the side of Alice’s sofa, 
* when we can all go to church together again. There always 
seems a want now you are away, as if we were not a whole 
family.’ 

‘ You ought not to feel it,’ said Alice, ‘ because you must have 
been accustomed to it by this time. I have not been to church 
for a great many Sundays.’ 

‘ But we are not accustomed to it,’ replied Madeline ; ‘ and 
we always think of you. Ruth and I made an agreement that 
we would remember you in the prayer for sick persons, till you 
could come to church yourself.’ 

‘ One family,’ said Alice, in a musing tone. ‘ No, IMaddy, 
we shall not be that for a long time to come.’ 

< Why not 1 What’ — a sudden thought struck Madeline, and 
she paused. 

‘ Next Wednesday is the confirmation,’ said Alice, ‘ and the 
Sunday after ’ 

Madeline’s eyes were dimmed in an instant. ‘ O Alice ! ’ 
she exclaimed, ‘ I would give anything — yes, anything in the 
world, to have you with us there.’ 

‘ So would I,’ said Alice, in a very low voice ; adding directly, 
‘ so would I — at least, if I were fit.’ 

‘ You might be wrapped up very carefully and taken in the 
carriage,’ said Madeline. 

• I do not think Lady -Catharine would consent,’ replied 
Alice. ‘ And there is your papa, too ; he has not said anything 


562 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


about it, and he cannot have a better opinion of me now tlian 
he had.’ 

‘ But I will ask him, exclaimed Madeline, eagerly ; ‘ I will 
go to him directly. 

‘ No, Madeline ; no, indeed ; I will not have a word said. 
I could not bear him to refuse, and he cannot see any reason 
for it now more than there was before ; and there is so little 
time left. No; I will wait.’ 

‘ Wait !’ said Madeline ; ‘ and perhaps be ill again.’ 

‘ Yes, perhaps,’ answered Alice, despondingly ; ‘ but it cannot 
be helped ; i\ has been all my own fault.’ 

‘ But here is Ruth,’ said Madeline, as her sister appeared at 
the door ; ‘ just talk to her ; ask her whether she does not 
think it possible.’ 

‘ She cannot tell,’ replied Alice, ‘ and she knows more about 
me than other people do ; she knows I am not fit.’ 

As Ruth drew near, her quick perception caught the meaning 
of the conversation in an instant. ‘ Alice may not be well 
enough to go to the confirmation,’ she said. 

There was something of coldness in her manner, and Alice 
looked hurt, and observed, ‘ I hoped, Ruth, you would have 
cared about it.’ 

Ruth made no reply. She stooped to fasten the sandal of her 
shoe, and Madeline saw that she could not manage it well. She 
offered to do it for her ; but Ruth would not be helped. She 
kept her head bent down, and when she raised it again, began 
to unfasten her bonnet strings in the' same nervous manner. 
Alice lay back on the sofa, seemingly very tired. She was play- 
ing with a rose ; but her eyes were fixed upon her hands, which 
bore the stamp of illness almost as much as her face. 

‘ They will not grow strong, like mine, by next Wednesday, I 
am afraid,’ said ‘Madeline, guessing what she was thinking. 

‘ And it would be no good if they could,’ said Alice. ‘ I had 
better not think about it.’ 

Madeline was going to appeal to Ruth again for her opinion ; 
but a glance showed her that she had better not take any 
notice of her. ‘ I shall go into the garden,’ she said, ‘ and 
gather some more flowers for your stand ; these are quite 
shabby.’ 

Alice begged her to wait; but Madeline looked again at Ruth, 
and repeated her intention. 

‘ There is a beautiful moss-rose in the middle walk,’ remarked 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 563 

Ruth, quietly, and Madeline took the hint and was gone 
directly. Then Ruth rose, and kneeling by Alice, said, in a 
husky voice, ‘ Alice, I cannot be confirmed if you are not/ 

‘ Ruth, you ! — not confirmed exclaimed Alice. 

‘ No, Alice, I cannot ; I must wait.’ 

‘ But I thought you did not care. I am not well enough — 
they will not let me be,’ said Alice. 

‘ They will let you. Ifithey do not, I cannot go,’ said Ruth. 
* I could not bear it without you. Alice, I have been more 
wrong ; I am much worse than you are ; it was I who made 
you do things — I who encouraged it all. I could not go, and 
for you to be shut out ! Even if I were confirmed, I could not go 
to the service afterwards on Sunday. I have said so to papa.’ 

‘ Have you.?’ exclaimed Alice, in surprise. 

- ‘Yes, and he understood. I spoke to him last night. I 
have thought and thought, until I could not bear thinking; and 
at last I went to him. He seemed to know what I felt ; but 
he was not sure about you. He said the time was very short, 
and that you had not expressed any wish. He xould not 
quite make out what you felt about it ; and then he spoke of 
your not being well enough.’ 

‘ Yes, there is the difficulty,’ said Alice. 

‘ But it is not the real difficulty. I went to mamma this 
morning and asked her, and she does not think there would be 
much risk. She is nearly sure that Lady Catharine would be 
persuaded. O Alice ! if I might only tell papa that you 
wish it !’ 

‘To be confirmed? Yes — indeed, I wish it; but I don’t 
know afterwards — I have not thought about it all as I ought ; 
it frightens me.’ 

‘ But, Alice, I am frightened, and I have more cause to be 
than you have. It seems now as if I should never know again 
when I was doing right. Yet papa will let me go. Say yes, 
for my sake.’ 

‘No, not for your sake,’ said Alice, quickly. ‘That must 
not be the reason.’ 

‘ Then for your own sake ; because it is right.’ 

‘ Is it right ?’ asked Alice. 

‘ Yes, I suppose it is — it must be. Alice, indeed, indeed I 
could not bear, it if you were not there.’ 

^ One must be very good afterwards,’ said Alice. 

Ruth was silent. 


564 


LA NET ON PARSONAGE. 


‘ Very much in earnest/ continued Alice. 

Still Ruth kept her hands clasped together, and remained 
without speaking till Madeline came back with the flowers. 
Ruth looked round and beckoned to her. ‘Tell her she must 
be confirmed,’ she said, laying her hand upon Alice’s, and look- 
ing entreatingly at Madeline. 

‘ Not confirmed only,’ said Alice. ‘ I could bear that ; but 
afterwards.’ 

Madeline kissed her, and whispered ‘ It is only like going to 
a Father and a Brother; one ought not to be so very much 
afraid.’ 

‘ You did not think so once,’ said Alice; ‘ you were frightened 
as I am.’ 

‘ I am frightened now,’ replied Madeline ; ‘ that is — no, not 
frightened, it is not the word — I was frightened at first, when I 
talked to papa ; now it is different. It makes my heart beat ; 
but I think of being loved, and then I am happy.’ 

‘ Hark ! that is papa’s voice, I am sure,’ exclaimed Ruth, 
rising. 

Mr Clifford was inquiring of Marsham if he might see Alice. 

‘ He is come to talk to me,’ exclaimed Alice, becoming much 
agitated. 

‘ He said he would,’ replied Ruth. ‘ Alice, pray listen to him.* 

‘ But if I am not well enough — if I cannot go ?’ 

‘ Papa came to the Manor with me,’ said Ruth ; ‘ but I was 
not to tell you. He came with mamma, too, to talk to Lady 
Catharine. If she said the confirmation was impossible, they 
were to have gone home without seeing you again ; so it must 
be settled that you may go if you will.’ 

Ruth took up her bonnet and went to the door. 

Madeline remained behind. ‘ You do wish it.?’ she said. 

Alice did not say ‘ Yes ; ’ but she kept Madeline’s hand fast 
in hers. ‘ Maddy, dear, I think sometimes that if you were to 
say some prayers for me, I should be better. Do you think you 
could ?’ 

‘ 1 do very often,’ said Madeline, eagerly. 

‘ But now, particularly, would you ask that I might have the 
same things you want yourself ? — that I might be fit ? I should 
like some one else to ask besides myself. You won’t forget ?’ 

Madeline’s promise was understood by manner rather than 
by words. She made Alice drink some water, smoothed her 
pillows, and went out of the room, jubt as Mr Clifford entered it. 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


565 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

M r CLIFFORD had held several conversations with Alice 
since she left her sick chamber ; but they had been 
general. Alice was not cold, but she was still reserved ; she 
could listen, but she could not talk. She listened now. The 
first beginnings of a conversation upon any particular subject are 
almost always awkward. Mr Clifford said he had been talking 
to Lady Catharine ; but no notice was taken of the observa- 
tion. He remarked that Alice was looking better, and she said 
that she felt better. Then he inquired if she had been out, and 
was informed that she was to go into the garden that afternoon ; 
and whilst this w'as said, Alice diligently destroyed the last 
remnant of the rose which she had before been pulling to 
pieces. Mr Clifford made one or two more attempts to draw 
her out, and finding them unsuccessful, said at length — 

‘ One would imagine, Alice, that you and I were strangers, 
instead of old friends. I wonder what we are both thinking 
of.’ 

Alice only 'blushed. 

‘ I will not try to guess your thoughts,’ he continued ; ‘ though 
I should like you to guess mine.’ 

Alice looked up rather archly ; but in an instant she became 
quite grave, and said she believed she knew them. 

‘ Ruth has been with you,’ observed Mr Clifford ; ‘ perhaps 
she has given you some idea ? ’ 

‘ She spoke of the confirmation,’ said Alice, shortly. 

I imagined she had done so. She is very anxious about it ; 
so am I so is Lady Catharine.’ 

‘ Lady Catharine ! ’ repeated Alice, in a tone of surprise. 

‘ Yes, she is anxious in two ways : both that you should go 
and that you. should not.’ 

‘ I thought she was afraid,’ said Alice. 

^ Yes, so she is, in a degi'ee ; but I think we could overcome 

her fear if’ He paused. 

Alice also was silent. 

‘ A good deal has passed since you and I had a conversation 
upon the subject on the shore,’ pursued Mr Clifford. ‘ Do you 
remember it well ? ’ 

‘ Yes, perfectly,’ replied Alice ; but she would add nothing 
besides. 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


566 

Mr Clifford looked vexed. ^ I had hoped your wishes were 
altered/ he continued ; ‘ if they are not, there is very little to 
be said at present ; but you must promise me, my dear child, 
to let me talk to you more fully before long. I think you will 
see the duty and necessity of taking advantage of the next early 
opportunity, if not of this one.’ He rose, as if to go. 

Alice stopped him. ‘ Please, don’t,’ she said, whilst her 
voice faltered, ‘ I think — I wish — I would much rather you 
should not go.’ 

Mr Clifford sat down again instantly. 

‘ I could be confirmed,’ exclaimed Alice, hurriedly ; ‘ I 

should like it ; but I could not — I am not good enough for the 
Holy Communion ; and therefore I would rather wait entirely. 
I hope you understand, and will not be angry,’ she added, 
beseechingly. 

Mr Clifford answered in a tone of great kindness. ‘ Thank 
you, my love : I like to hear your difficulties. No one could 
be angry with you ; and you know you are one of my own 
children. I can quite understand ’ 

‘ And agree 1 ’ exclaimed Alice. * 

‘ Not entirely that ; but I think we shall agree after we have 
talked together a little. I am sure, Alice, now you are in earnest.’ 

‘ I hope so,’ said Alice, humbly. 

‘ I am sure you are,’ repeated Mr Clifford. ‘ I am certain 
that you would like to please God.’ 

‘ Yes, very much,’ replied Alice. 

‘ Well, then, dear child, why should you wish not to do the 
one thing which He has especially commanded .? ’ 

‘ Because it is so serious — so awful,’ answered Alice. 

‘ Doubtless ; no one can really tell how much so ; but it is 
just as serious and awful for me as for you.’ 

‘ Only you are so much better,’ said Alice. 

‘ That is not the question. The blessing in itself is infinite, 
and the duty most solemn ; but it is commanded ; this is all 
we have to think of.’ 

‘ We must be fit,’ said Alice. 

‘ How fit — in what degree 1 ’ 

Alice did not know what to reply. 

‘ Not perfect,’ said Mr Clifford ; ‘ because in that case no 
human being would ever be fit. Then how good must we be ? 
how many virtues must we possess, before we are permitted to 
receive the Holy Communion ? ’ 


LAi\£TON PARSONAGE. 


567 


‘ We must wish to have them all,’ replied Alice. 

‘ And do you not wish it ? Is there any one wrong practice 
which you are determined to encourage ? ’ 

‘No, I hope not — I will try not,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yet you are still afraid ? ’ 

‘ Because I am not sure of being good afterwards,’ replied 
Alice. ‘ I cannot trust myself.’ 

‘Neither can I, my love; nor can Lady Catharine; nor 
Madeline, nor any person that ever lived. But the Bible tells 
us, that however weak we may be in ourselves, yet in our 
Saviour we are strong. Only, Alice, our trust must be shown 
by actions. It can be of no use to go to a physician and say, 
we will do what he bids us in every case except the one which 
he assures us is of the greatest importance.’ 

‘ But wicked people are kept from the Holy Communion,’ said 
Alice ; ‘ and every one says it is very dangerous to go, if we 
are wicked.’ 

‘ Unquestionably. But, Alice, you are not afraid to be con- 
firmed ; you do not refuse to go before God, and promise to 
keep the vow^s of your baptism ? ’ 

‘ Because I mean to try and do it,’ said Alice. 

‘ Then you are not wicked ; that is, not wilfully de'termined 
to do wrong. There is therefore no obstacle of that kind.’ 

‘ I only wish to be sure that I shall not go back again,’ said 
Alice. ‘ But all my life I have begun things and never finished 
them.’ 

‘ The certainty is in your own power much more than you . 
think,’ answered Mr Clifford. ‘ If you remember, wLen we 
talked together upon the shore, I spoke to you a great deal 
about your duties ; but I did not tell you how you could per- 
form them. My wish was, I own, rather to alarm you, by 
showing you how many and difficult they were. I hoped by 
that means to rouse your fears and your energies. Now that 
you really feel how impossible it is to fulfil them of yourself, I 
should like to consider what is to be done in such a case.’ 

‘ We must pray, I know,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yes, pray diligently — just mark the word — it is a very 
peculiar one to use on such a subject ; we should rather have 
said, I think, earnestly or fervently. The church says diligently 
— so also our blessed Lord declares, “ That men ought 'always 
to pray and not to faint.” ’ 

‘ That never struck me before,’ said .Mice. 


568 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


‘ Very likely not. We are often enthusiastic and excited when 
we give directions to others. Our Lord on the contrary is simple, 
clear, and, if one may be allowed to use the word without irre- 
\ erence, practical. His own prayer — what can be more quiet 
and yet more solemn than it is ? ’ 

‘ It is very beautiful,’ said Alice ; ‘ but I very often think 
that I do not understand it.’ 

‘ We must be perfect to do that, because it is a perfect prayer. 
If we never were to use any other, we could still put a meaning 
into those words to express all our wants.’ 

‘ But we must use others,’ said Alice. 

‘Yes ; from the infirmity of our nature we require change to 
keep up our wandering attention. Still the Lord’s Prayer is our 
model ; and one great peculiarity which must strike us when we 
think about it, Is its being so short and so calm.’ 

‘ I thought people were better the longer they prayed,’ said 
Alice. 

‘ To like our prayers, and to find a great deal to pray for, is 
a sign of our advancement in goodness, no doubt,’ replied Mr 
Clifford; ‘but if we are beginners in religion, we must take the 
instruction of beginners. Our Lord gave His disciples a prayer 
in few words. He himself continued all night in prayer to 
God.’ 

‘ Then you would not have me use long prayers,’ said Alice. 

‘ Short prayers, but frequent, my love, would be my recom- 
mendation. And this was what I wished particularly to speak 
to you about when you told me just now that you could not 
trust yourself, and that you could not be sure of going on rightly. 
You are, I allow, naturally very changeable ; your moods vary 
almost every hour in .the day. Now if you can bring yourself 
to obey a fixed rule, quite independent of your other moods — a 
rule for your prayers — I think it will go far towards giving you 
stability of character.’ 

‘ I know I must pray every morning and evening,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yes, but that is not enough. Stated prayers in the day, at 
stated hours, are essential for a person of your character.’ 

‘ But I am often engaged,’ said Alice, ‘ and I can never 
answer for interruptions.’ 

‘ I am aware of that ; but I am sure also that nothing is ever 
accomplished either in religion or in common business, unless 
we put before ourselves some paramount object to which every- 
thing else is to yield. If keeping to your fixed times of prayer 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


569 

is your object, you will attain it even if you are called upon to 
live amidst the bustle of a London life, instead of in a retired 
country place.’ 

‘ But what hours ? how can I manage ? I shall never know 
how to begin,’ said Alice. 

‘ There is a rule which has been practised at different times in 
the Christian Church as to hours of prayer,’ replied Mr Clifford; 
‘ and it is better to keep to example than to form plans of our 
own. I will give you a little book of Bishop Cosins’, framed for 
the Protestant ladies who were in exile at the court of Charles 
the Second, when he was in France. It has, amongst many 
others, prayers for the morning, evening, and for the third, sixth, 
and ninth hours, which are memorable as connected with our 
Lord’s sufferings.’ 

‘ But I could not use them all,’ said Alice. 

^ No, and I would not advise you to attempt it ; at least at 
first. Perhaps you might find time twice in the day ; we will 
say at the sixth hour, which is twelve o’clock, and in the even- 
ing, which would be about six. The short services would not 
occupy you much more than ten minutes each. When you have 
attended the church services in the week, you might alter them 
as you see fit, not to overburden yourself.’ 

‘ And if any interruptions come ? ’ 

‘ Still endeavour to keep as near to the time fixed as you can. 
It is order and habit which your mind wants, Alice; something 
to strengthen it.’ 

‘ But,’ said Alice, ‘ my thoughts will never be fixed at such 
strange times. I shall be thinking of my work, or reading, or 
what I have just left off doing.’ 

‘ A Christian,’ replied Mr Clifford, ‘ is bound to think upon 
God always : anything, therefore, which breaks in upon our 
worldly thoughts, and forces us to remember Him, must be most 
valuable.’ 

‘ I shall not keep the rule,’ said Alice ; ‘ I never did yet in my 
life keep any rule for more than a few days together.’ 

‘ Well ! suppose it should be so ; suppose you are tempted to 
break it, you can begin again. If you break it twenty times 
you can recommence it as often. It is not so much an effort 
of mind, dependent upon health and spirits, which is required at 
the first moment ; it is an effort of the body ; to rise from your 
seat, and leave your employment and go to your own room.’ 

‘ But,’ exclaimed Alice, ‘ merely to do that will not be prayer.’ 


570 


LANE TON PARSONAGE, 


‘No, but it will be the first step towards it; it will be 
obedience, and by degrees the habit will recur as an instinct ; 
whatever you may be doing, even when travelling or in com- 
pany. The very striking of the clock will be a voice summon- 
ing you to God, and you will learn to mark it by short prayers 
when you cannot do more.’ 

‘ I will try to do as you say,’ replied Alice. 

‘ Then, my love,' I cannot have the slightest doubt of your 
success, and by and by your prayers will become a pleasure to 
you.’ 

Alice looked up with a smile, but said that she was afraid 
that would never be the case, for she always felt dissatisfied 
with her prayers, as if she had not prayed for the people and 
things she ought, even when she tried to do so. 

‘ Perhaps the examination of the Lord’s Prayer will be a help 
to you,’ replied Mr Clifford. ‘ One thing it teaches us very 
clearly, that we are to think more of God than of ourselves. 
We shall see this if w^e study it well. We begin by calling Him 
“Our Father;” and as children are always interested in a 
Father’s honour, we pray next for His glory, that “ His name 
may be hallowed,” and “ His kingdom come.” Afterwards 
there follow short petitions for ourselves : our bodily wants, 
the forgiveness of our sins, freedom from temptation and the 
snares of the evil one ; and then again we recur to the thought 
of God’s Majesty. This is not like our usual notion of what 
prayer should be, is it, Alice ?’ 

‘ No,’ answered Alice, ‘ and it seems impossible not to think 
of ourselves first.’ 

‘ The perfection of religion is love,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘and 
a very perfect Christian loving His Saviour intensely would 
long that His name might be hallowed, and His kingdom come, 
more than for any earthly blessing. But I am not going to 
speak to you particularly about this now, because I think you 
are not likely to enter into it ; and of course much of our time 
must be spent in confession, and asking for help. I mentioned 
it chiefly to suggest what we are apt to forget, that intercession 
should form a chief part of our praj'crs, because by it we pro- 
mote the gloiy of God.’ 

‘ There are such a number of persons to pray for,’ said Alice, 
‘ 1 cannot remember them all, and then I grow tired and think 
it very troublesome.’ 

‘ Did you ever see Bishop Andrews’ form of intercession 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


571 


There is one for the Wednesday which might be used in two 
parts at the two short services I mentioned for twelve and six 
o’clock. In the morning and evening you might content your- 
self with mentioning your particular relations and friends, and 
using the Lord’s Prayer for all Christians. Only I would beg 
you to try and bring vividly before your mind the persons you 
are praying for ; imagine them, as it were, standing by you to 
be interceded for. Short and numerous intercessions are apt 
to become a form if we do not watch ourselves. When they 
are real, they help us extremely in becoming charitable, and 
interested in persons about us.’ 

‘ But there are other things besides intercession which are 
difficult,’ said Alice ; ‘ remembering all our faults is one.’ 

^ Yes, there again you require division. You have a general 
idea of your chief faults ; perhaps it may be an assistance to 
you to take one of the most prominent, and make it an especial 
point of duty to guard against it.’ 

‘ That will be having my own way,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yes, a dislike to interference and government ; this is 
particularly dangerous for you, my love, because it is the root of 
all your unhappiness with Lady Catharine. If you can once 
bring yourself to bend your will to hers, instead of wishing that 
she should bend hers to yours, your life will be very different 
from what it has been.’ 

‘ It will be extremely difficult, I am afraid,’ said Alice. 

‘ No doubt it will ; and more so by and by than at present. 
Whilst you are an invalid, the object of eveiy one is to pet 
you ; but if it please God that you should grow strong 
again, you must prepare to bear the roughnesses of life.’ 

‘ Yes, I know,’ said Alice, sighing. 

‘ Then look at the case bravely, my dear child. Submission 
is your duty ; thorough submission in all things, small as 
well as great, and to wishes as well as commands. Lady 
Catharine stands in the place of a parent. There is no duty 
more imperatively commanded than that of unresisting obedience 
to our parents.’ 

‘ I will try,’ said Alice, but the tone, though sincere, was 
doubtful. 

‘ Try ; and yet make up your mind not to be disheartened by 
failures. Only keep a constant watch. When you go to your 
noonday prayers, for instance, look back upon what has passed 
since breakfast time, and see how often you have been wilful ; 


572 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


the recollection of one fault will bring back others ; and you 
may inquire also whether you have been vain, idle, selfish, 
hasty, and so on. It will take less time than you think, and a 
short general confession and petition for help, perhaps only the 
verse of a Psalm, will, you may be sure, be accepted if sincere. 
So again at six o’clock, the same plan may be adopted. In 
that case your self-examination at night will be much easier, 
and you will not be induced to give it up, or hurry over it, by 
sleep or fatigue. You had better not give yourself more duty 
of the kind than you can help at night ; rest, especially at your 
age, is very essential, and sitting up late prevents early rising, 
and makes the whole day go wrong.’ 

‘ Still, I shall only have a confused notion, I am afraid,’ said 
Alice. 

‘ Then perhaps to help you, it may not be amiss to make a 
memorandum of the principal faults you have noticed in your- 
self at these times of self-examination ; only let them be made 
simply and shortly, without any expressions of feeling that may 
tend to vanity and self-consciousness, and from time to time 
destroyed. Perhaps it would be well to keep them for a week, 
and look them over every Friday, which is the day especially 
appointed for confession and humiliation. And, my love,’ con- 
tinued Mr Clifford, ‘ I think you will find these outward rules of 
use ; but I hope I need* not urge upon you, that if you were to 
begin them now, and continue them unbroken till the day of 
your death, they must be worse than useless without the aid 
of the Spirit of God and the devotion of your secret heart.’ 

‘ You have not told me about thanksgiving,’ said Alice ; 

‘ but I should like to be helped in that too.’ 

‘ I have said little about it,’ replied Mr Clifford, ‘ because it 
is the first part of our prayers likely to become a pleasure to us ; 
you will soon find it make you happy to remember, besides the 
infinite blessings which are common to us all, the little pleasures 
and peculiar mercies you have enjoyed yourself in the day, and 
to say that you are grateful for them. It will make you realise, 
perhaps more than anything, that God is your Friend.’ 

Alice sighed deeply. 

‘ You sigh, my dear child ; you distrust yourself, why should 
you or rather why should you not trust to God ?’ 

‘ Because I have tried and always gone back,’ said Alice. 

‘ Then try again ; pray again ; above all, Alice, make up 
your mind to receive the Holy Communion the very first oppor- 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


573 


tiinity which is offered you ; and never, except from absolute 
necessity, omit it. How greatly it will be the means of 
strengthening you, it will be impossible for you to imagine.^ 

‘ The service is so solemn,’ said Alice. ‘ When I have prac- 
tised the rules some time, perhaps, I shall be more fit. I am 
sure now I shall never feel as I ought.’ 

‘ You make the common mistake, my love, and a very great 
one it is. You measure fitness by feeling, and the benefits of 
the Holy Communion by the amount of your own goodness. 
God, on the contrary, sees us all unfit, all sinful. Still He says, 
“ Come.” Sorrow for the past, sincerity of purpose for the 
future, and an honest, childlike faith, are the wedding-garments 
required. If I did not think you possessed these, Alice, I should 
say as I did before, wait ; but wait not only for the Holy Com- 
munion but for your confirmation. Do not go before God with 
a double mind. Do not dare to make Him a promise whicli 
in your heart you do not intend to perform.’ 

Alice answered humbly, ‘ I think I intend to perform it.’ 

‘ Then, dear child, trust that intention to God. He will keep 
what you commit to Him ; and whenever you are inclined to 
be disheartened, go to Him, and commit it to Him again. I 
mean this literally. I could tell you, Alice, of instances in 
which persons with most serious natural faults — faults, perhaps, 
of all others, the most difficult to cure, have been placed in 
circumkances likely to foster them to the utmost — so much so, 
that any one looking at the case would say that they could not 
escape ; and I have known the persons themselves to be actually 
frightened at their position, from a sense of their own powerless- 
ness ; and yet, after committing themselves entirely to God, and 
asking Him to save them, finding them.selves saved, they 
knew not how ; not merely enabled to battle with temptation, 
but in a measure unconscious of its power.’ 

‘ I know faults can be conquered,’ said Alice. 

‘ Yes, but these faults were not conquered ; they remained 
still in the disposition, and showed themselves on other occa- 
sions, though, of course, they were carefully guarded against ; 
but the strange thing is, that in the peculiar case in which the 
danger seemed so imminent, they were comparatively unfelt. 
These instances are as plain answers to prayer, as clear inter- 
positions of God in our behalf, as the curing of a physical 
disease would be. I mention them just to show what help you 
have at hand at all moments. The very instability of your 


574 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


disposition may be converted into a blessing, if it should teach 
you to throw yourself more fully upon God/ ' 

Alice looked happier and more hopeful ; yet she could not 
bring herself to say what Mr Clifford wished. He asked her 
again whether she could now agree to his proposal. She would 
think, she said ; she would let him know. 

‘ But, my love, are there any more reasons ? Is there any- 
thing you have not told me ? ^ 

‘ No, nothing, except’ 

‘ Except what 1 ’ 

‘ Except that I am afraid, and that I shall not keep my 
thoughts properly fixed, and that my feelings are always so cold 
in church ; everything distracts me.’ 

‘ Very likely ; some persons do find it more difficult to keep 
up their attention properly in church than in private ; these are 
individual peculiarities ; they do not affect the great question of 
our sincerity.’ 

‘ But it will be very wicked not to attend then ?’ said Alice. 

‘ Not to try to attend, and not to care about it would be very 
wicked,’ replied Mr Clifford ; ‘ but you must be prepared to 
find your thoughts wander ; it may be even more than usual 
when you are to engage for the first time in such a very solemn 
service. The sense of novelty — the uncertainty as to what you 
are exactly to do — physical nervousness — all these things will 
tend to disturb you — perhaps to make you quite cold ; but these 
are not true tests of our condition or our acceptance. And 
when you are conscious of them, do not try to work yourself up 
to a state of excitement ; pray that you may be assisted ; and 
instead of thinking of yourself, think of your Saviour ; think of 
those parts of the Gospel which speak of His sufferings, and 
endeavour, if you can, to realise them, or read some of the 
prophetical Psalms ; go out of yourself as much as you can, try 
to forget whether you are feeling much or little ; and remember 
the question for self-examination will be, how you endeavour to 
prepare for your infinite privilege ; to keep up the remembrance 
of it, and to struggle against your faults afterwards. The first 
little act of self-denial when .you return home, done with a special 
remembrance that you have been a partaker of the Holy Com- 
munion, will, as it were, stamp the act upon your heart. 

‘ And when I have to go again, I shall never think I have 
prepared myself properly,’ said Alice. 

‘ You will find the preparation comparatively easy ; if you 


LANETON PARSONAGE. 


575 


can keep steadily to the rules I mentioned just now/ said Mr 
Clifford. ‘ Self-examination will be a light task when it is so 
constantly performed ; though it will be right, at such seasons, 
to take a larger view of your conduct, and see if you can dis- 
cover any marked progress from one month to another. You 
may also read with attention particular parts of the Bible, such 
as our Saviour’s sermon on the mount, St Paul’s exhortations 
to the Romans, in the 12th chapter of his epistle; or to the 
Ephesians, in the 4th, 5 th, and 6th chapters ; or again, the 
description of charity in the t 3th chapter of the i st Epistle to 
the Corinthians, and compare your conduct with the laws laid 
down in them. But I do not advise you to add very much to 
your usual reading and prayers at these times. I think -you 
would find it better rather to make alterations in those to which 
you are accustomed. Instead, for instance, of using the short 
services exactly as they are put down in Bishop Cosins’ Devo- 
tions, to choose other psalms, or to fix upon other prayers 
more peculiarly suitable ; remembering that although it is most 
needful to recollect our own offences, it is quite as much, if not 
more so, to dwell upon the mercy purchased for us by our 
Saviour’s sufferings. The more we can think of Him, the safer 
and happier we shall be. I do not mean to imply from what 
I have said, that special, lengthened preparation is not good. 
When persons have but little leisure for devotion generally, it is 
most necessary ; but I would rather spread your preparation 
over a longer space of time ; — in fact, teach you to feel that you 
were always prepared.’ 

‘ Or never prepared,’ said Alice, with a faint smile. 

‘ Never prepared,’ repeated Mr Clifford, emphatically. ‘You 
are right, Alice ; it is “ never prepared ; ” that we must feel 
more and more. But, my love, we stand upon the same ground 
there. Have you anything else to say ?’ 

‘ Nothing ; not that I can remember, only ’ 

‘ Only you will consent, my own dear child ; you will not 
draw back again ?’ Alice held out her hand in token of assent. 
He took it in one of his, and laying the other upon her head, 
said : ‘ May God bless you and keep you, my child ; and give 
you peace both now and evermore.’ 


576 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


CHAPTER LXIV. 



HE deep-toned bells of Laneton Church pealed joyfully on 


J- the morning of the confirmation. Early, quite early, 
when the sun had but lately risen upon the earth, they poured 
forth their hallowed greeting, summoning many a young heart 
to wake from the dreams of earth, and prepare for the warfare 
of eternity. 

Ruth was among the first to rise — to remember that a solemn 
day at length was come, and to make an effort for its proper 
celebration. And Madeline had no wish to linger in indolence, 
'fhe watchword for that day, and for the whole future of their 
lives, was to be — energy. ‘ Whatsoever thy heart findeth to 
do, do it with thy might ; for there is no work, nor device, nor 
knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave whither thou goest.’ It 
Avas a quiet, silent energy which was required now ; to keep in 
mind the remembrance of the vows they were about to renew ; 
and to prevent their thoughts from being distracted by the un- 
usual excitement in the village, by the arrival of the bishop, and 
all the attendant interest of a ceremony comparatively rare. 
These are the real trials of all such occasions, and Ruth was 
pained to find how much they disturbed her. But all was for- 
gotten, when at length she found herself with Madeline in the 
church, and no longer called upon to give heed to anything save 
the duty before her. One thought alone drew her attention 
occasionally aside, when her eye wandered to a distant spot, 
where Alice sat apart, leaning against a cushion, and supported 
by Lady Catharine. 

Poor Alice ! she looked very ill on that morning, but she did 
not cry ; and she sat perfectly still, without once looking up. 
She seemed scarcely to have the power to seek for herself a 
blessing ; only she was humble, and penitent, and willing to 
receive it. The sight of her caused Ruth a sharp pang. All 
her mistakes and errors rose up before her with renewed self- 
reproach ; and when she thought of the promise to be made, 
her heart misgave her with the doubt whether it could ever be 
performed. But it was too late then to draw back, and Ruth 
did not really wish it. She was learning to trust herself to a 
Higher Power; to trust as simply as Madeline, whose face bore 
the grave but exquisitely sweet expression of one about to be 
placed in a position of new and untried responsibility, and full 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


577 

of resolution and hope, because loving too much to fear that she 
should ever be forsaken. 

Yes ; it is pleasant, it is a real happiness, to bow ourselves 
to the service of One to whom our hearts are given. If there 
is delight in the devotion of a wife to her husband ; if there 
is a proud satisfaction in loyalty, or a pure enthusiasm in 
patriotism ; surely also, there is a higher, a more ennobling hap- 
piness in offering ourselves to our Saviour, in pledging ourselves 
to be the faithful soldiers and servants of Christ, even to our 
life’s end. 

The service proceeded, differing but little from the usual form. 
A short question was asked, a still shorter answer given — and 
the act was over. 

So it is often in this world ; we speak for a moment — we 
promise for eternity. Then Ruth, and Madeline, and Alice, 
knelt together to be blessed ! And what a blessing it was which 
they received ! Strengthening and inspiriting ; full of hope for 
a daily increase of happiness upon earth — of rest in the eternal 
kingdom of glory. Ruth’s tears fell fast but peacefully. The 
prospect of heavenly aid was the only trust of a contrite spirit. 
And Alice’s hands shook as she held by the altar rail, trying to 
understand where she was, and what she was doing ; and whilst 
distressed at her bewildered feelings, still satisfied with the sense 
of performing a duty ; and Madeline, self-possessed in manner 
and tranquilly happy, forgot her own powerlessness as the eager- 
ness of fervent resolution melted into the quiet rest of undoubting 
faith. 

When the service was ended, Alice was carried back to the 
Manor, watched with inexpressible tenderness by Lady Catha- 
rine ; and Ruth and Madeline returned to the Parsonage, to 
receive that warm, fond kiss of a parent’s love, the remembrance 
of which, when the reality is beyond our reach, we must bear 
with an aching longing to our grave. 

They spent the evening together at the Manor. Ruth and 
Madeline were alone with Alice when the clock struck nine. 
They had fallen into a conversation which interested them — a 
recollection of school days. Ruth noticed the hour, and Made- 
line said she could not have imagined it half as late. Alice rose 
instantly. 

‘ Good night, dears,’ she said. ‘ I must go. It is my bed- 
time now, till I get well.’ 

‘ Must you, indeed .^’ 


578 


LANE TON PARSONAGE. 


‘ Yes ; Lady Catharine wishes it.' 

No one said a word more. Alice put on her shawl, and went 
to find Lady Catharine. She met her on the stairs. : 

‘ I was coming to look for you, my love. I did not like to' 
disturb you \ but it is best to be particular.' 

‘ I heard the clock strike,' said Alice, ‘ and I knew it would 
be best to go. I came to wish you good night.' 

‘ Dear child ! it seems very hard you should be interrupted; 
but you must grow strong again.' 

‘ It is not so very hard,' said Alice; *and I like to please you,' 
she added, as she held up her face to be kissed. 

‘ And what did Ruth and Madeline say.? ' asked Lady Catha- 
rine, whilst she wrapped Alice's shawl more closely round her 
throat, to keep her from the draught on the stairs. 

‘ Nothing, when they knew it was right.' 

Lady Catharine smiled and answered, ‘ God bless you, my 
child, and them too !' and Alice went away. 

Sunday came — bright as the day of confirmation ; but quiet, 
like other Sundays. Some days and some feelings are not to 
be described. Words are human and imperfect ; feelings, the 
purest and the best are the gift of the Spirit of God. 

If sincerity and humbleness of heart are acceptable in the 
sight of heaven, then were Alice, and Ruth, and Madeline 
accepted when they knelt to receive their first communion. It 
was a moment full of deep awe — of a sense of incomprehensible 
mercy — of hopes scarcely understood — of privileges too great 
to be realised ; a season, the blessedness of which was perceived 
in remembrance, rather than in its reality. 

Others, more advanced in their Christian course, could better 
comprehend it — at least, could be more grateful for it — most 
especially the parents, who then saw- themselves bound to their 
precious children by the most hallowed of all ties ; and she, the 
widow, once desolate, who read in that solemn act the pledge 
that the one treasure of her life should be hers for ever in 
heaven. 

‘ Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His 
blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth My flesh, and 
drinketh My blood, hath eternal life, and I will raise him up at 
the last day.' 


LANETON PARSONAGE, 


579 

Ruth, and Madeline, and Alice, were now fully Christians. 
They were to begin life for themselves. 

We may think that it would be well to follow them farther; 
we may desire to know how it fared with them in that long and 
dangerous journey; we may feel some wish to know the period 
of their probation upon earth ; and where, after the toil and 
the conflict were ended, they were laid to rest in their last calm 
sleep. 

But the future is sometimes to be read by the past, not 
indeed perfectly, yet sufficiently. They who give thehnselves to 
God in their youth will be protected by Him to their old age. 
We may picture Alice to ourselves as still struggling against 
the inherent faults of her character ; sometimes fretted by 
interruption, sometimes inclined to rebel against authority; but 
we may be certain that the principle within must rise superior 
to all such evil ; and we may imagine the Manor to be still 
occasionally dull, and Lady Catharine inclined to be strict, but 
love and obedience will, by degrees, melt even the most firmly 
fixed habits, and Lady Catharine Hyde’s deep affection, and 
consciousness of her own imperfection, might well be trusted to 
ensure Alice’s happiness. 

And at the Parsonage, — with Mr and Mrs Clifford, and 
Madeline, and Ruth, — it can scarcely be difficult to prophesy 
something of the course of after years. We may surely foresee 
the unwearying energy with which Ruth would labour to correct 
her hidden faults ; how she would pray, and strive, and watch ; 
and when overtaken by sin, repent and strive again ; and 
pursue the straightforward path, under the remembrance of the 
time when, .in bygone years, she had wandered from it into 
error ; and how the clear stream of Madeline’s Christian life 
would flow onwards to the end, even as it had so early begun, 
disturbed, it might be, for one moment, by the pollutions of 
earth, but the next reflecting untroubled the hues of heaven. 

Such as they were in life, such would they be in death. May 
God in His mercy grant that the history of their early years 
may not have been written in vain. 

THE END. 


PRI.NTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. 
EDINBURGH AND LONDON 




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